Dramatic  Masterpieces 


BY 

GREEK,   SPANISH,    FRENCH,   GERMAN, 

AND    ENGLISH    DRAMATISTS 


WITH   A  SPECIAL  INTRODUCTION   BY 

ALBERT    ELLERY    BERGH 


REVISED    EDITION 


VOLUME    I 


NEW    YORK     AND     LONDON 

THE    CO-OPERATIVE    PUBLICATION    SOCIETY 


Copyright,  iqoo 
By  the  colonial  PRESS 


P/V 

V.  / 
CONTENTS 

/  rAse 

Prometheus  Bound i 

(Edipus  Rex 41 

Medea 87 

The  Knights 137 

Life  a  Dream 205 

The  Misanthrope 271 

PHiEDRA 325 

She  Stoops  to  Conquer 377 


3  87-'=  ■/  n 


PROMETHEUS    BOUND 


BY 


AESCHYLUS 

[Metrical  Translation  by  Elisabeth  Barrett  Browning] 


DRAMATIS    PERSONS 
Prometheus. 

OCEANUS. 

Hermes. 

Heph^stus. 

Ig,  daughter  of  Inachus. 

Strength  and  Force. 

Chorus  of  Sea  NYMPHSfci 


PROMETHEUS   BOUND 

SCENE.— AT   THE   ROCKS 
Strength  and  Force,  Hephcestus  and  Prometheus. 

Strength. — We  reach  the  utmost  limit  of  the  earth, 
The  Scythian  track,  the  desert  without  man. 
And  now,  Hephaestus,  thou  must  needs  fulfil 
The  mandate  of  our  Father,  and  with  links 
Indissoluble  of  adamantine  chains 
Fasten  against  this  beetling  precipice 
This  guilty  god.    Because  he  filched  away 
iThine  own  bright  flower,  the  glory  of  plastic  fire, 
And  gifted  mortals  with  it, — such  a  sin 
It  doth  behove  he  expiate  to  the  gods. 
Learning  to  accept  the  empery  of  Zeus 
And  leave  oflF  his  old  trick  of  loving  man. 

(Heph^stus. — O  strength  and  Force,  for  you,  our  Zeus's  will 
Presents  a  deed  for  doing,  no  more ! — but  /, 
I  lack  your  daring,  up  this  storm-rent  chasm 
To  fix  with  violent  hands  a  kindred  god, 
Howbeit  necessity  compels  me  so 
That  I  must  dare  it,  and  our  Zeus  commands 
{With  a  most  inevitable  word.    Ho,  thou ! 
High-thoughted  son  of  Themis  who  is  sage! 
Thee  loth,  I  loth  must  rivet  fast  in  chains 
Against  this  rocky  height  unclomb  by  man, 
iWhere  never  human  voice  nor  face  shall  find 
Out  thee  who  lov'st  them,  and  thy  beauty's  flower, 
Scorched  in  the  sun's  clear  heat,  shall  fade  away. 
Night  shall  come  up  with  garniture  of  stars 
To  comfort  thee  with  shadow,  and  the  sun 
« 


4  yESCHYLUS 

Disperse  with  retrickt  beams  the  morning-frosts, 
But  through  all  changes  sense  of  present  woe 
Shall  vex  thee  sore,  because  with  none  of  them 
There  comes  a  hand  to  free.    Such  fruit  is  plucked 
From  love  of  man !  and  in  that  thou,  a  god, 
Didst  brave  the  wrath  of  gods  and  give  away 
Undue  respect  to  mortals,  for  that  crime 
Thou  art  adjudged  to  guard  this  joyless  rock, 
'    Erect,  unslumbering,  bending  not  the  knee, 
And  many  a  cry  and  unavailing  moan 
To  utter  on  the  air.    For  Zeus  is  stern, 
And  new-made  kings  are  cruel. 

Strength. —  Be  it  so. 

Why  loiter  in  vain  pity  ?    Why  not  hate 
A  god  the  gods  hate  ?  one  too  who  betrayed 
Thy  glory  unto  men  ? 

Heph^stus. —  An  awful  thing 

Is  kinship  joined  to  friendship. 

Strength. —  Grant  it  be; 

Is  disobedience  to  the  Father's  word 
A  possible  thing?    Dost  quail  not  more  for  that? 

Heph^stus. — Thou,  at  least,  art  a  stern  one :  ever  bold. 

Strength. — Why,  if  I  wept,  it  were  no  remedy ; 
And  do  not  thou  spend  labor  on  the  air 
To  bootless  uses. 

Heph^stus. —  Cursed  handicraft! 

I  curse  and  hate  thee,  O  my  craft ! 

Strength. —  Why  hate 

Thy  craft  most  plainly  innocent  of  all 
These  pending  ills  ? 

Heph.IiStus. —  I  would  some  other  hand 

Were  here  to  work  it ! 

Strength.—  All  work  hath  its  pain. 

Except  to  nile  the  gods.    There  is  none  free 
Except  King  Zeus. 

Heph^stus. —  I  know  it  ver>'  well: 

I  argue  not  against  it. 

Strength.—  Why  not,  then, 

Make  haste  and  lock  the  fetters  over  him 
Lest  Zeus  beliold  thee  lagging? 


PROMETHEUS  BOUND 

Heph^stus.—  Here  be  chains. 

Zeus  may  behold  these. 
Strength. —  Seize  him:  strike  amain: 

Strike  with  the  hammer  on  each  side  his  hands — 

Rivet  him  to  the  rock. 
Heph^stus. —  The  work  is  done, 

And  thoroughly  done. 
Strength. —  Still  faster  grapple  him ; 

Wedge  him  in  deeper:  leave  no  inch  to  stir. 

He's  terrible  for  finding  a  way  out 

From  the  irremediable. 
Hephaestus. —  Here's  an  arm,  at  least, 

Grappled  past  freeing. 
Strength. —  Now  then,  buckle  me 

The  other  securely.    Let  this  wise  one  learn 

He's  duller  than  our  Zeus. 
Heph^stus. —  Oh,  none  but  he 

Accuse  me  justly. 
Strength. —  Now,  straight  through  the  chest. 

Take  him  and  bite  him  with  the  clenching  tooth 

Of  the  adamantine  wedge,  and  rivet  him. 
Heph^stus. — Alas,  Prometheus,  what  thou  sufferest  here 

I  sorrow  over. 
Strength. —  Dost  thou  flinch  again 

And  breathe  groans  for  the  enemies  of  Zeus? 

Beware  lest  thine  own  pity  find  thee  out. 
Heph^stus. — Thou  dost  behold  a  spectacle  that  turns 

The  sight  o'  the  eyes  to  pity. 
Strength. —  I  behold 

A  sinner  suffer  his  sin's  penalty. 

But  lash  the  thongs  about  his  sides. 
Heph^stus. —  So  much, 

I  must  do.    Urge  no  farther  than  I  must. 
Strength. — Ay,  but  I  will  urge ! — and,  with  shout  on  sliout, 

Will  hound  thee  at  this  quarry.    Get  thee  down 

And  ring  amain  the  iron  round  his  legs. 
Hephaestus. — That  work  was  not  long  doing. 
Strength. —  Heavily  now 

Let  fall  the  strokes  upon  the  perforant  gyves: 

For  He  who  rates  the  work  has  a  heavy  hand. 


6  .ESCHYLUS 

Hephaestus. — Thy  speech  is  savage  as  thy  shape. 

Strength.  Be  thou 

Gentle  and  tender!   but  revile  not  me 
For  the  firm  will  and  the  untruckling  hate. 

Heph^stus. — Let  us  go.    He  is  netted  round  with  chains. 

Strength. — Here,  now,  taunt  on !  and  having  spoiled  the  gods 
Of  honors,  crown  withal  thy  mortal  men 
Who  live  a  whole  day  out.    Why  how  could  they 
Draw  off  from  thee  one  single  of  thy  griefs  ? 
Methinks  the  Daemons  gave  thee  a  wrong  name, 
"  Prometheus,"  which  means  Providence — because 
Thou  dost  thyself  need  providence  to  see 
Thy  roll  and  ruin  from  the  top  of  doom. 

Prometheus     (alone). — O   holy  .^ther,  and   swift-winged 
Winds, 
And  River-wells,  and  laughter  innumerous 
Of  yon  sea-waves !    Earth,  mother  of  us  all, 
And  all-viewing  cyclic  Sun,  I  cry  on  you, — 
Behold  me,  a  god,  what  I  endure  from  gods  1 
Behold,  with  throe  on  throe, 
How,  wasted  by  this  woe, 
I  wrestle  down  the  myriad  years  of  time ! 
Behold,  how  fast  around  me, 
The  new  King  of  the  happy  ones  sublime 
Has  flung  the  chain  he  forged,  has  shamed  and  bound  me ! 
iWoe,  woe !  to-day's  woe  and  the  coming  morrow's 
I  cover  with  one  groan.    And  where  is  found  me 
A  limit  to  these  sorrows  ? 

And  yet  what  word  do  I  say  ?    I  have  foreknown 
Clearly  all  things  that  should  be ;  nothing  done 
Comes  sudden  to  my  soul ;  and  I  must  bear 
What  is  ordained  with  patience,  being  aware 
Necessity  doth  front  the  universe 
With  an  invincible  gesture.    Yet  this  curse 
Which  strikes  me  now,  I  find  it  hard  to  brave 
In  silence  or  in  speech. ,. Because  I  gave 
Honor  to  mortals,  I  have  yoked  my  soul 
To  this  compelling  fate.    Because  I  stole 
The  secret  fount  of  fire,  whose  bubbles  went 
Over  the  ferrule's  brim,  and  manward  sent 


PROMETHEUS  BOUND  7 

Art's  mighty  means  and  perfect  rudiment. 

That  sin  I  expiate  in  this  agony, 

Hung  here  in  fetters,  'neath  the  blanching  sky. 

Ah,  ah  me !  what  a  sound, 

What  a  fragrance  sweeps  up  from  a  pinion  unseen 

Of  a  god,  or  a  mortal,  or  nature  between. 

Sweeping  up  to  this  rock  where  the  earth  has  her  bound, 

To  have  sight  of  my  pangs  or  some  guerdon  obtain. 

Lo,  a  god  in  the  anguish,  a  god  in  the  chain ! 

The  god,  Zeus  hateth  sore 

And  his  gods  hate  again, 

As  many  as  tread  on  his  glorified  floor. 

Because  I  loved  mortals  too  much  evermore. 

Alas  me !  what  a  murmur  and  motion  I  hear, 

As  if  birds  flying  near ! 

And  the  air  undersings 

The  light  stroke  of  their  wings — 

And  all  life  that  approaches  I  wait  for  in  fear. 

fj-  Strophe  I. 

Chorus  of  Sea  Nymphs. — 

Fear  nothing !  our  troop 

Floats  lovingly  up 

With  a  quick-oaring  stroke 

Of  wings  steered  to  the  rock, 
Having  softened  the  soul  of  our  father  below. 
For  the  gales  of  swift-bearing  have  sent  me  a  sound, 
And  the  clank  of  the  iron,  the  malleted  blow, 

Smote  down  the  profound 

Of  my  caverns  of  old, 
And  struck  the  red  light  in  a  blush  from  my  brow, — 
Till  I  sprang  up  unsandaled,  in  haste  to  behold. 
And  rushed  forth  on  my  chariot  of  wings  manifold. 
Prometheus. — Alas  me! — alas  me! 

Ye  offspring  of  Tethys  who  bore  at  her  breast 
Many  children,  and  eke  of  Oceanus,  he 
Coiling  still  around  earth  with  perpetual  unrest ! 
Behold  me  and  see 

How  transfixed  with  the  fang 

Of  a  fetter  I  hang 


8  .ESCHYLUS 

On  the  high- jutting  rocks  of  this  fissure  and  keep 
An  uncoveted  watch  o'er  the  world  and  the  deep. 

Antistrophe  I. 

Chorus. — I  behold  thee,  Prometheus ;  yet  now,  yet  now, 
A  terrible  cloud  whose  rain  is  tears 
Sweeps  over  mine  eyes  that  witness  how 

Thy  body  appears 
Hung  awaste  on  the  rocks  by  infrangible  chains : 
For  new  is  the  Hand,  new  the  rudder  that  steers 
The  ship  of  Olympus  through  surge  and  wind — 
And  of  old  things  passed,  no  track  is  behind. 
Prometheus. — Under  earth,  under  Hades 

Where  the  home  of  the  shade  is, 
All  into  the  deep,  deep  Tartarus, 
I  would  he  had  hurled  me  adown. 
I  would  he  had  plunged  me,  fastened  thus 
In  the  knotted  chain  with  the  savage  clang. 
All  into  the  dark  where  there  should  be  none, 
Neither  god  nor  another,  to  laugh  and  see. 

But  now  the  winds  sing  through  and  shake 
The  hurtling  chains  wherein  I  hang, 
And  I,  in  my  naked  sorrows,  make 
Much  mirth  for  my  enemy. 

Strophe  H. 

Chorus. — Nay !  who  of  the  gods  hath  a  heart  so  stern 
As  to  use  thy  woe  for  a  mock  and  mirth? 
Who  would  not  turn  more  mild  to  learn 
Thy  sorrows?  who  of  the  heaven  and  earth 

Save  Zeus?    But  he 

Right  wrathfully 
Bears  on  his  sceptral  soul  unbent 
And  rules  thereby  the  heavenly  seed, 
Nor  will  he  pause  till  he  content 
His  thirsty  heart  in  a  finished  deed ; 
Or  till  Another  shall  appear, 
To  win  by  fraud,  to  seize  by  fear 
The  hard-to-be-captured  government. 


PROMETHEUS   BOUND 

Prometheus. — Yet  even  of  me  he  shall  have  need, 
That  monarch  of  the  blessed  seed, 
Of  me,  of  me,  who  now  am  cursed 

By  his  fetters  dire, — 
•To  wring  my  secret  out  withal 

And  learn  by  whom  his  sceptre  shall 
Be  filched  from  him — as  was,  at  first. 

His  heavenly  fire. 
But  he  never  shall  enchant  me 

With  his  honey-lipped  persuasion; 
Never,  never  shall  he  daunt  me 
With  the  oath  and  threat  of  passion 
Into  speaking  as  they  want  me. 
Till  he  loose  this  savage  chain, 

And  accept  the  expiation 
Of  my  sorrow,  in  his  pain. 

Antistrophe  II. 

Chorus. — ^Thou  art,  sooth,  a  brave  god, 

And,  for  all  thou  hast  borne 
From  the  stroke  of  the  rod. 

Nought  relaxest  from  scorn. 
But  thou  speakest  unto  me 

Too  free  and  unworn ; 
And  a  terror  strikes  through  mc 
And  festers  my  soul 
And  I  fear,  in  the  roll 
Of  the  storm,  for  thy  fate 
In  the  ship  far  from  shore: 
Since  the  son  of  Saturnus  is  hard  in  his  hatc 
And  unmoved  in  his  heart  evermore. 
Prometheus. — I  know  that  Zeus  is  stern; 

I  know  he  metes  his  justice  by  his  will ; 

And  yet,  his  soul  shall  learn 

More  softness  when  once  broken  by  this  ill: 

And  curbing  his  unconquerable  vaunt  I 

He  shall  rush  on  in  fear  to  meet  with  me 

Who  rush  to  meet  with  him  in  agony. 

To  issues  of  harmonious  covenant. 


lo 


JESCHYLUS 


Chorus. — Remove  the  veil  from  all  things  and  relate 
The  story  to  us — of  what  crime  accused, 
Zeus  smites  thee  with  dishonorable  pangs. 
Speak :   if  to  teach  us  do  not  grieve  thyself. 

Prometheus. — The  utterance  of  these  things  is  torture  to  me, 
But  so,  too,  is  their  silence ;  each  way  lies 
,Woe  strong  as  fate 
When  gods  began  with  wrath, 
And  war  rose  up  between  their  starry  brows. 
Some  choosing  to  cast  Chronos  from  his  throne 
That  Zeus  might  king  it  there,  and  some  in  haste 
With  opposite  oaths  that  they  would  have  no  Zeus 
To  rule  the  gods  forever — I,  who  brought 
The  counsel  I  thought  meetest,  could  not  move 
The  Titans,  children  of  the  Heaven  and  Earth, 
What  time,  disdaining  in  their  rugged  souls 
My  subtle  machinations,  they  assumed 
It  was  an  easy  thing  for  force  to  take 
The  mastery  of  fate.    My  mother,  then. 
Who  is  called  not  only  Themis  but  Earth  too, 
(Her  single  beauty  joys  in  many  names) 
Did  teach  me  with  reiterant  prophecy 
What  future  should  be,  and  how  conquering  gods 
Should  not  prevail  by  strength  and  violence 
But  by  guile  only.    When  I  told  them  so. 
They  would  not  deign  to  contemplate  the  truth 
On  all  sides  round ;  whereat  I  deemed  it  best 
To  lead  my  willing  mother  upwardly 
"And  set  my  Themis  face  to  face  with  Zeus 
As  willing  to  receive  her.    Tartarus, 
With  its  abysmal  cloister  of  the  Dark, 
Because  I  gave  that  counsel,  covers  up 
The  antique  Chronos  and  his  siding  hosts, 
And,  by  that  counsel  helped,  the  king  of  gods 
Hath  recompensed  me  with  these  bitter  pangs ; 
For  kingship  wears  a  cancer  at  the  heart — 
Distrust  in  friendship.    Do  ye  also  ask 
What  crime  it  is  for  which  he  tortures  me  ? 
That  shall  be  clear  before  you.    When  at  first 
He  filled  his  father's  throne,  he  instantly 


PR03IETHEUS   BOUND  ii 

Made  various  gifts  of  glory  to  the  gods 

And  dealt  the  empire  out.    Alone  of  men, 

Of  miserable  men,  he  took  no  count, 

But  yearned  to  sweep  their  track  off  from  the  world 

And  plant  a  newer  race  there.    Not  a  god 

Resisted  such  desire  except  myself. 

/  dared  it !    /  drew  mortals  back  to  light, 

From  meditated  ruin  deep  as  hell ! 

For  which  wrong,  I  am  bent  down  in  these  pangs 

Dreadful  to  suffer,  mournful  to  behold. 

And  I,  who  pitied  man,  am  thought  myself 

Unworthy  of  pity ;  while  I  render  out 

Deep  rhythms  of  anguish  'neath  the  harping  hand 

That  strikes  me  thus — a  sight  to  shame  your  Zeus ! 
Chorus. — Hard  as  thy  chains  and  cold  as  all  these  rocks 

Is  he,  Prometheus,  who  withholds  his  heart 

From  joining  in  thy  woe.    I  yearned  before 

To  fly  this  sight ;  and,  now  I  gaze  on  it, 

I  sicken  inwards. 
Prometheus. —  To  my  friends,  indeed, 

I  must  be  a  sad  sight. 
Chorus. —  And  didst  thou  sin 

No  more  than  so  ? 
Prometheus. —  Ijdid^X'^strain  besides 

My  mortals  from  premeditating  death. 
Chorus. — How  didst  thou  medicine  the  plague- fear  of  death  ? 
Prometheus. — I  set  blind  Hopes  to  inhabit  in  their  house. 
Chorus. — By  that  gift  thou  didst  help  thy  mortals  well. 
Prometheus. — I  gavejhem  also  fire. 
Chorus. —  '  And  have  they  now, 

Those  creatures  of  a  day,  the  red-eyed  fire? 
Prometheus, — They  have :  and  shall  learn  by  it  many  arts. 
Chorus. — And  truly  for  such  sins  Zeus  tortures  thee 

And  will  remit  no  anguish  ?    Is  there  set 

No  limit  before  thee  to  thine  agony  ? 
Prometheus. — No  other :  only  what  seems  good  to  Him. 
Chorus. — And  how  will  it  seem  good  ?  what  hope  remains  ? 

Seest  thou  not  that  thou  hast  sinned  ?    But  that  thou  hast 
sinned 

It  glads  me  not  to  speak  of,  and  grieves  thee; 


I  a  ^SCHYLUS 

Then  let  it  pass  from  both,  and  seek  thyself 
Some  outlet  from  distress. 
Prometheus. —  It  is  in  truth 

An  easy  thing  to  stand  aloof  from  pain 
And  lavish  exhortation  and  advice 
On  one  vexed  sorely  by  it.    I  have  known 
All  in  prevision.    By  my  choice,  my  choice, 
I  freely  sinned — I  will  confess  my  sin — 
And  helping  mortals,  found  my  own  despair. 
I  did  not  think  indeed  that  I  should  pine 
Beneath  such  pangs  against  such  skyey  rocks. 
Doomed  to  this  drear  hill  and  no  neighboring 
Of  any  life :  but  mourn  not  ye  for  griefs 
I  bear  to-day :  hear  rather,  dropping  down 
To  the  plain,  how  other  woes  creep  on  to  me. 
And  learn  the  consummation  of  my  doom. 
Beseech  you,  nymphs,  beseech  you,  grieve  for  me 
Who  now  am  grieving ;  for  Grief  walks  the  earth. 
And  sits  down  at  the  foot  of  each  by  turns. 
Chorus. — We  hear  the  deep  clash  of  thy  words, 
Prometheus,  and  obey. 
And  I  spring  with  a  rapid  foot  away 
From  the  rushing  car  and  the  holy  air, 

The  track  of  birds ; 
And  I  drop  to  the  rugged  ground  and  there 
Await  the  tale  of  thy  despair. 

Oceanus  enters. 

OcEANUS. —  I  reach  the  bourn  of  my  weary  road. 
Where  I  may  see  and  answer  thee, 
Prometheus,  in  thine  agony. 
On  the  back  of  the  quick-winged  bird  I  glode. 
And  I  bridled  him  in 
With  the  will  of  a  god. 
'Behold,  thy  sorrow  aches  in  me 

Constrained  by  the  force  of  kin. 
Nay,  though  that  tie  were  all  undone, 
For  the  life  of  none  beneath  the  sun 
Would  I  seek  a  larger  benison 
Than  I  seek  for  thine. 


PROMETHEUS  BOUND  13 

And  thou  shalt  learn  my  words  are  truth' — 

That  no  fair  parlance  of  the  mouth 
Grows  falsely  out  of  mine. 

Now  give  me  a  deed  to  prove  my  faith ; 

For  no  faster  friend  is  named  in  breath  _ 
Than  I,  Oceanus,  am  thine. 
Prometheus. — Ha !  what  has  brought  thee  ? 
Hast  thou  also  come 

To  look  upon  my  woe  ?    How  hast  thou  dared 
To  leave  the  depths  called  after  thee,  the  caves 
Self-hewn  and  self-roofed  with  spontaneous  rock, 
To  visit  earth,  the  mother  of  my  chain  ? 
Hast  come  indeed  to  view  my  doom  and  mourn 
That  I  should  sorrow  thus?    Gaze  on,  and  see 
How  I,  the  fast  friend  of  your  Zeus, — how  I 
The  erector  of  the  empire  in  his  hand. 
Am  bent  beneath  that  hand,  in  this  despair. 
Oceanus. — Prometheus,  I  behold :  and  I  would  fain 
Exhort  thee,  though  already  subtle  enough, 
To  a  better  wisdom.    Titan,  know  thyself. 
And  take  new  softness  to  thy  manners  since 
A  new  king  rules  the  gods.    If  words  like  these, 
Harsh  words  and  trenchant,  thou  wilt  fling  abroad, 
Zeus  haply,  though  he  sit  so  far  and  high. 
May  hear  thee  do  it,  and  so,  this  wrath  of  his 
Which  now  aflfects  thee  fiercely,  shall  appear 
A  mere  child's  sport  at  vengeance.    Wretched  god, 
Rather  dismiss  the  passion  which  thou  hast. 
And  seek  a  change  from  grief.    Perhaps  I  seem 
To  address  thee  with  old  saws  and  outworn  sense- 
Yet  such  a  curse,  Prometheus,  surely  waits 
On  lips  that  speak  too  proudly :  thou,  meantime, 
Art  none  the  meeker,  nor  dost  yield  a  jot 
To  evil  circumstance,  preparing  still 
To  swell  the  account  of  grief  with  other  griefs 
Than  what  are  borne.    Beseech  thee,  use  me  thett 
For  counsel :  do  not  spurn  against  the  pricks — 
Seeing  that  who  reigns,  reigns  by  cruelty 
Instead  of  right.    And  now,  I  go  from  hence, 
And  will  endeavor  if  a  power  of  mine 


14  '^SCHYLUS 

Can  break  thy  fetters  through.    For  thee — ^be  calm, 
And  smooth  thy  words  from  passion.    Knowest  thou  not 
Of  perfect  knowledge,  thou  who  knowest  too  much, 
That  where  the  tongue  wags,  ruin  never  lags  ? 

Prometheus. — I  gratulate  thee  who  hast  shared  and  dared 
All  things  with  me,  except  their  penalty. 
Enough  so !  leave  these  thoughts.    It  cannot  be 
That  thou  shouldst  move  him.    He  may  not  be  movedj 
And  thou,  beware  of  sorrow  on  this  road. 

OCEANUS. — Ay !  ever  wiser  for  another's  use 

Than  thine !  the  event,  and  not  the  prophecy, 
Attests  it  to  me.    Yet  where  now  I  rush. 
Thy  wisdom  hath  no  power  to  drag  me  back ; 
Because  I  glory,  glory,  to  go  hence 
And  win  for  thee  deliverance  from  thy  pangs, 
As  a  free  gift  from  Zeus. 

Prometheus. —  Why  there,  again, 

I  give  thee  gratulation  and  applause. 
Thou  lackest  no  good-will.    But,  as  for  deeds. 
Do  nought !  'twere  all  done  vainly ;  helping  nought, 
Whatever  thou  wouldst  do.     Rather  take  rest 
And  keep  thyself  from  evil.    If  I  grieve, 
I  do  not  therefore  wish  to  multiply 
The  griefs  of  others.    Verily,  not  so ! 
For  still  my  brother's  doom  doth  vex  my  soul — 
My  brother  Atlas,  standing  in  the  west. 
Shouldering  the  column  of  the  heaven  and  earth, 
A  difficult  burden !    I  have  also  seen. 
And  pitied  as  I  saw,  the  earth-bom  one, 
The  inhabitant  of  old  Cilician  caves. 
The  great  war-monster  of  the  hundred  heads, 
(All  taken  and  bowed  beneath  the  violent  Hand,) 
Typhon  the  fierce,  who  did  resist  the  gods. 
And,  hissing  slaughter  from  his  dreadful  jaws, 
Flash  out  ferocious  glory  from  his  eyes 
As  if  to  storm  the  throne  of  Zeus.    Whereat, 
The  sleepless  arrow  of  Zeus  flew  straight  at  him. 
The  headlong  bolt  of  thunder  breathing  flame, 
And  struck  him  downward  from  his  eminence 
Of  exultation ;  through  the  very  soul. 


PROMETHEUS   BOUND  I5 

It  struck  him,  and  his  strength  was  withered  up 

To  ashes,  thunder-blasted.    Now  he  Hes 

A  helpless  trunk  supinely,  at  full  length 

Beside  the  strait  of  ocean,  spurred  into 

By  roots  of  ^tna ;  high  upon  whose  tops 

Hephaestus  sits  and  strikes  the  flashing  ore. 

From  thence  the  rivers  of  fire  shall  burst  away 

Hereafter,  and  devour  with  savage  jaws 

The  equal  plains  of  fruitful  Sicily, 

Such  passion  he  shall  boil  back  in  hot  darts 

Of  an  insatiate  fury  and  sough  of  flame. 

Fallen  Typhon — howsoever  struck  and  charred 

By  Zeus's  bolted  thunder.    But  for  thee, 

Thou  art  not  so  unlearned  as  to  need 

My  teaching — let  thy  knowledge  save  thyself. 

/  quaff  the  full  cup  of  a  present  doom, 

And  wait  till  Zeus  hath  quenched  his  will  in  wrath. 
OcEANUS. — Prometheus,  art  thou  ignorant  of  this, 

That  words  do  medicine  anger  ? 
Prometheus. —  If  the  word 

With  seasonable  softness  touch  the  soul 

And,  where  the  parts  are  ulcerous,  sear  them  not 

By  any  rudeness. 
OcEANUS. —  With  a  noble  aim 

To  dare  as  nobly — is  there  harm  in  thatf 

Dost  thou  discern  it  ?    Teach  me. 
Prometheus. —  I  discern 

Vain  aspiration,  unresultive  work. 
Oceanus. — Then  suffer  me  to  bear  the  brunt  of  this  I 

Since  it  is  profitable  that  one  who  is  wise 

Should  seem  not  wise  at  all. 
Prometheus. —  And  such  would  seem 

My  very  crime. 
Oceanus. —  In  truth  thine  argument 

Sends  me  back  home. 
Prometheus. —  Lest  any  lament  for  me 

Should  cast  thee  down  to  hate. 
Oceanus. —  The  hate  of  him 

Who  sits  a  new  king  on  the  absolute  throne  ? 
Prometheus. — Beware  of  him,  lest  thine  heart  grieve  by  him. 

v.^oa.vc.       Vol.    •^Cy—B 


i6  ^SCHYLUS 

OcEANUS. — Thy  doom,  Prometheus,  be  my  teacher! 

Prometheus. —  Go. 

Depart — beware — and  keep  the  mind  thou  hast. 

OcEANUS. — Thy  words  drive  after,  as  I  rush  before. 

Lo !  my  four-footed  bird  sweeps  smooth  and  wide 
The  flats  of  air  with  balanced  pinions,  glad 
To  bend  his  knee  at  home  in  the  ocean-stall. 

[Oceanus  departs.] 

Strophe  I. 

Chorus. —    I  moan  thy  fate,  I  moan  for  thee, 

Prometheus !     From  my  eyes  too  tender. 
Drop  after  drop  incessantly 

The  tears  of  my  heart's  pity  render 
My  cheeks  wet  from  their  fountains  free; 
Because  that  Zeus,  the  stem  and  cold. 
Whose  law  is  taken  from  his  breast. 
Uplifts  his  sceptre  manifest 
Over  the  gods  of  old. 

Antistrophe  I. 

All  the  land  is  moaning 
iWith  a  murmured  plaint  to-day; 

All  the  mortal  nations 

Having  habitations 
In  the  holy  Asia 

Are  a  dirge  entoning 
For  thine  honor  and  thy  brothers*. 
Once  majestic  beyond  others 

In  the  old  belief, — 
Now  are  groaning  in  the  groaning 

Of  thy  deep-voiced  grief. 

Strophe  II. 

Mourn  the  maids  inhabitant 

Of  the  Colchian  land, 
Who  with  white,  calm  bosoms  stand 

In  the  battle's  roar: 
Mourn  the  Scythian  tribes  that  haunt 
The  verge  of  earth,  Mseotis'  shore. 


PROMETHEUS  BOUND  i; 

Antistrophe  II. 

Yea  f  Arabia's  battle-crown, 
And  dwellers  in  the  beetling  town 
Mount  Caucasus  sublimely  nears — 
An  iron  squadron,  thundering  down 
With  the  sharp-prowed  spears. 

But  one  other  before,  have  I  seen  to  remain 

By  invincible  pain 
Bound  and  vanquished— one  Titian!    'twas  Atlas,  who 

bears  ~  ^ 

In  a  curse  from  the  gods,  by  that  strength  of  his  own 

Which  he  evermore  wears, 
_The_weight  o£  the  heaven  on  his  shoulders  alone ; 

While  he  sighs  up  the  stars; 
And  the  tides  of  the  ocean  wail  bursting  their  bars — 

Murmurs  still  the  profound, 
And  black  Hades  roars  up  through  the  chasm  of  the 

ground, 
And  the  fountains  of  pure-running  rivers  moan  low 

In  a  pathos  of  woe. 
Prometheus. — Beseech  you,  think  not  I  am  silent  thus 
Through  pride  or  scorn.    I  only  gnaw  my  heart 
With  meditation,  seeing  myself  so  wronged. 
For  see — their  honors  to  these  new-made  gods, 
What  other  gave  but  I,  and  dealt  them  out 
With  distribution?    Ay — but  here  I  am  dumb! 
For  here,  I  should  repeat  your  knowledge  to  you. 
If  I  spake  aught.    List  rather  to  the  deeds 
I  did  for  mortals ;  how,  being  fools  before, 
I  made  them  wise  and  true  in  aim  of  soul. 
And  let  me  tell  you — not  as  taunting  men. 
But  teaching  you  the  intention  of  my  gifts, 
How,  first  beholding,  they  beheld  in  vain. 
And  hearing,  heard  not,  but,  like  shapes  in  dreams. 
Mixed  all  things  wildly  down  the  tedious  time, 
Nor  knew  to  build  a  house  against  the  sun 
With  wickered  sides,  nor  any  woodcraft  knew, 
But  lived,  like  silly  ants,  beneath  the  ground 


l8  ^SCHYLUS 

In  hollow  caves  unsunned.    There,  came  to  them 
No  steadfast  sign  of  winter,  nor  of  spring 
Flower-perfumed,  nor  of  summer  full  of  fruit, 
But  blindly  and  lawlessly  they  did  all  things, 
Until  I  taught  them  how  the  stars  do  rise 
And  set  in  mystery,  and  devised  for  them 
Number,  the  inducer  of  philosophies, 
The  synthesis  of  Letters,  and,  beside. 
The  artificer  of  all  things,  Memory, 
That  sweet  Muse-mother.    I  was  first  to  yoke 
The  servile  beasts  in  couples,  carrying 
An  heirdom  of  man's  burdens  on  their  backs. 
I  joined  to  chariots,  steeds,  that  love  the  bit 
They  champ  at — the  chief  pomp  of  golden  ease. 
And  none  but  I  originated  ships, 
The  seaman's  chariots,  wandering  on  the  brine 
"With  linen  wings.    And  I — oh,  miserable! — 
Who  did  devise  for  mortals  all  these  arts. 
Have  no  device  left  now  to  save  myself 
From  the  woe  I  suffer. 

Chorus. —  Most  unseemly  woe 

Thou  sufiferest,  and  dost  stagger  from  the  sense 
Bewildered !   like  a  bad  leech  falling  sick 
Thou  art  faint  at  soul,  and  canst  not  find  the  dpigs 
Required  to  save  thyself. 

Prometheus. —  Hearken  the  rest, 

And  marvel  further,  what  more  arts  and  means 
I  did  invent, — this,  greatest :   if  a  man 
Fell  sick,  there  was  no  cure,  nor  esculent 
Nor  chrism  nor  liquid,  but  for  lack  of  drugs 
Men  pined  and  wasted,  till  I  showed  them  all 
<  /    Those  mixtures  of  emollient  remedies 

Whereby  they  might  be  rescued  from  disease. 
I  fixed  the  various  rules  of  mantic  art, 
Discerned  the  vision  from  the  common  dream, 
Instructed  them  in  vocal  auguries 
Hard  to  interpret,  and  defined  as  plain 
The  wayside  omens — flights  of  crook-clawed  birds- 
Showed  which  are,  by  their  nature,  fortunate, 
And  which  not  so,  and  what  the  food  of  each. 


PROMETHEUS   BOUND  ip 

And  what  the  hates,  affections,  social  needs, 

Of  all  to  one  another — taught  what  sign 

Of  visceral  lightness,  colored  to  a  shade, 

May  charm  the  genial  gods,  and  what  fair  spots 

Commend  the  lung  and  liver.    Burning  so 

The  limbs  encased  in  fat,  and  the  long  chine, 

I  led  my  mortals  on  to  an  art  abstruse. 

And  cleared  their  eyes  to  the  image  in  the  fire, 

Erst  filmed  in  dark.    Enough  said  now  of  this. 

For  the  other  helps  of  man  hid  underground. 

The  iron  and  the  brass,  silver  and  gold, 

Can  any  dare  affirm  he  found  them  out 

Before  me  ?  none,  I  know !  unless  he  choose 

To  lie  in  his  vaunt.    In  one  word  learn  the  whole — 

That  all  arts  came  to  mortals  from  Prometheus. 

Chorus. — Give  mortals  now  no  inexpedient  help. 

Neglecting  thine  own  sorrow.    I  have  hope  still 
To  see  thee,  breaking  from  the  fetter  here, 
Stand  up  as  strong  as  Zeus. 

Prometheus. —  This  ends  not  thus, 

The  oracular  fate  ordains.    I  must  be  bowed 
By  infinite  woes  and  pangs,  to  escape  this  chain. 
Necessity  is  stronger  than  mine  art. 

Chorus. — Who  holds  the  helm  of  that  Necessity  ? 

Prometheus. — The    threefold    Fates    and    the    un forgetting 
Furies. 

Chorus. — Is  Zeus  less  absolute  than  these  are? 

Prometheus. —  Yea, 

And  therefore  cannot  fly  what  is  ordained. 

Chorus. — What  is  ordained  for  Zeus,  except  to  be 
A  king  forever? 

Prometheus. —  'Tis  too  early  yet 

For  thee  to  learn  it :   ask  no  more. 

Chorus. —  Perhaps 

Thy  secret  may  be  something  holy  ? 

Prometheus. —  Turn 

To  another  matter:  this,  it  is  not  time 
To  speak  abroad,  but  utterly  to  veil 
In  silence.    For  by  that  same  secret  kept, 
I  'scape  this  chain's  dishonor  and  its  woe. 


20  ^SCHYLUS 

Strophe  I. 

Chorus. —        Never,  oh  never 

May  Zeus,  the  all-giver, 
Wrestle  down  from  his  throne 

'  In  that  might  of  his  own 

To  antagonize  mine ! 
Nor  let  me  delay 
As  I  bend  on  my  way 
Toward  the  gods  of  the  shrine 
Where  the  altar  is  full 
Of  the  blood  of  the  bull, 
Near  the  tossing  brine 
Of  Ocean  my  father. 

May  no  sin  be  sped  in  the  word  that  is  said. 
But  my  vow  be  rather 
Consummated, 

Nor  evermore  fail,  nor  evermore  pine. 

Antistrophe  I. 

'Tis  sweet  to  have 

Life  lengthened  out 
With  hopes  proved  brave 

By  the  very  doubt, 
Till  the  spirit  enfold 
Those  manifest  joys  which  were  foretold. 
But  I  thrill  to  behold 

Thee,  victim  doomed, 
By  the  countless  cares 
And  the  drear  despairs 
Forever  consumed, — 
And  all  because  thou,  who  art  fearless  now 

Of  Zeus  above, 
Didst  overflow  for  mankind  below 

With  a  free-souled,  reverent  love. 
Ah  friend,  behold  and  see ! 
What's  all  the  beauty  of  humanity  ? 

Can  it  be  fair? 
What's  all  the  strength?  is  it  strong? 
And  what  hope  can  they  bear. 


PROMETHEUS  BOUND  91 

These  dying  livers — living  one  day  long? 
Ah,  seest  thou  not,  my  friend, 
How  feeble  and  slow 
And  like  a  dream,  doth  go 
This  poor  blind  manhood,  drifted  from  its  end? 
And  how  no  mortal  wranglings  can  confuse 
The  harmony  of  Zeus? 

Prometheus,  I  have  learnt  these  things 
From  the  sorrow  in  thy  face. 

Another  song  did  fold  its  wings 
Upon  my  lips  in  other  days, 
When  round  the  bath  and  round  the  bed 
The  hymeneal  chant  instead 

I  sang  for  thee,  and  smiled — 
And  thou  didst  lead,  with  gifts  and  vows, 

Hesione,  my  father's  child, 
To  be  thy  wedded  spouse. 

lo  enters. 

lo. —   What  land  is  this?  what  people  is  here? 
And  who  is  he  that  writhes,  I  see. 

In  the  rock-hung  chain? 
Now  what  is  the  crime  that  hath  brought  thee  to  pain? 
Now  what  is  the  land — make  answer  free — 
Which  I  wander  through,  in  my  wrong  and  fear  ? 

Ah !   ah  !    ah  me ! 
The  gad-fly  stingeth  to  agony! 
O  Earth,  keep  oflF  that  phantasm  pale 
Of  earth-born  Argus ! — ah ! — I  quail 

When  my  soul  descries 
That  herdsman  with  the  myriad  eyes 
Which  seem,  as  he  comes,  one  crafty  eye. 
Graves  hide  him  not,  though  he  should  die, 
But  he  doggeth  me  in  my  misery 
From  the  roots  of  death,  on  high — on  high— 
And  along  the  sands  of  the  siding  deep, 
All  famine-worn,  he  follows  me, 
And  his  waxen  reed  doth  undersound 


2  2  JESCHYLUS 

The  waters  round 
And  giveth  a  measure  that  giveth  sleep. 

Woe,  woe,  woe! 
Where  shall  my  weary  course  be  done  ? 
What  wouldst  thou  with  me,  Saturn's  son? 
And  in  what  have  I  sinned,  that  I  should  go 
Thus  yoked  to  grief  by  thine  hand  forever  ? 

Ah !   ah !   dost  vex  me  so 
That  I  madden  and  shiver 
Stung  through  with  dread? 

Flash  the  fire  down  to  burn  me ! 

Heave  the  earth  up  to  cover  me ! 
Plunge  me  in  the  deep,  with  the  salt  waves  over  me, 

That  the  sea-beasts  may  be  fed! 

0  king,  do  not  spurn  me 

In  my  prayer! 
For  this  wandering,  everlonger,  evermore, 

Hath  overworn  me. 
And  I  know  not  on  what  shore 

1  may  rest  from  my  despair. 

Chorus. — Hearest  thou  what  the  ox-horned  maiden  saith  ? 

Prometheus. — How  could  I  choose  but  hearken  what  she  saith, 
The  frenzied  maiden? — Inachus's  child? — 
Who  love-warms  Zeus's  heart,  and  now  is  lashed 
By  Here's  hate  along  the  unending  ways? 

lo. —   Who  taught  thee  to  articulate  that  name — 

My  father's?    Speak  to  his  child 

By  grief  and  shame  defiled ! 
Who  art  thou,  victim,  thou  who  dost  acclaim 
Mine  anguish  in  true  words  on  the  wide  air. 
And  callest  too  by  name  the  curse  that  came 

From  Here  unaware, 
To  waste  and  pierce  me  with  its  maddening  goad? 

Ah — ah — I  leap 
With  the  pang  of  the  hungry — I  bound  on  the  road— 

I  am  driven  by  my  doom — 

I  am  overcome 


PROMETHEUS   BOUND  »3 

By  the  wrath  of  an  enemy  strong  and  deep ! 
Are  any  of  those  who  have  tasted  pain, 

Alas,  as  wretched  as  I? 
Now  tell  me  plain,  doth  aught  remain 
For  my  soul  to  endure  beneath  the  sky? 
Is  there  any  help  to  be  holpen  by? 
If  knowledge  be  in  thee,  let  it  be  said! 

Cry  aloud — cry 
To  the  wandering,  woful  maid ! 

Prometheus. — Whatever  thou  wouldst  learn  I  will  declare,— 

No  riddle  upon  my  lips,  but  such  straight  words 

As  friends  should  use  to  each  other  when  they  talk. 

Thou  seest  Prometheus,  who  gave  mortals  fire,   j: 
lo. —    O  common  Help  of  all  men,  known  of  all, 

O  miserable  Prometheus, — for  what  cause 

Dost  thou  endure  thus? 
Prometheus. —  I  have  done  with  wail 

For  my  own  griefs,  but  lately. 
lo. —  Wilt  thou  not 

Vouchsafe  the  boon  to  me  ? 
Prometheus. —  Say  what  thou  wilt. 

For  I  vouchsafe  all. 
lo. —  Speak  then,  and  reveal 

Who  shut  thee  in  this  chasm. 
Prometheus. —  The  will  of  Zeus,  c^ — 

The  hand  of  his  Hephaestus, 
lo. —  And  what  crime 

Dost  expiate  so  ? 
Prometheus. — Enough  for  thee  I  have  told 

In  so  much  only. 
lo. —  Nay,  but  show  besides 

The  limit  of  my  wandering,  and  the  time 

Which  yet  is  lacking  to  fulfil  my  grief. 
Prometheus. — Why,  not  to  know  were  better  than  to  know 

For  such  as  thou. 
lo. —  Beseech  thee,  blind  me  not 

To  that  which  I  must  suffer. 
Prometheus. —  If  I  do, 

The  reason  is  not  that  I  grudge  a  boon. 


24  ^SCHYLUS 

lo. —    What  reason,  then,  prevents  thy  speaking  out? 

Prometheus. — No  grudging ;  but  a  fear  to  break  thine  heart. 

lo. —    Less  care  for  me,  I  pray  thee.    Certainty 
I  count  for  advantage. 

Prometheus. —  Thou  wilt  have  it  so, 

And  therefore  I  must  speak.    Now  here — 

Chorus. —  Not  yet. 

Give  half  the  guerdon  my  way.    Let  us  learn 
First,  what  the  curse  is  that  befell  the  maid, — 
Her  own  voice  telling  her  own  wasting  woes : 
The  sequence  of  that  anguish  shall  await 
The  teaching  of  thy  lips. 

Prometheus. —  It  doth  behove 

That  thou.  Maid  lo,  shouldst  vouchsafe  to  these 

The  grace  they  pray — the  more,  because  they  are  called 

Thy  father's  sisters :  since  to  open  out 

And  mourn  out  grief  where  it  is  possible 

To  draw  a  tear  from  the  audience,  is  a  work 

That  pays  its  own  price  well. 

lo. —  I  cannot  choose 

But  trust  you,  nymphs,  and  tell  you  all  ye  ask, 
In  clear  words — though  I  sob  amid  my  speech 
In  speaking  of  the  storm-curse  sent  from  Zeus, 
And  of  my  beauty,  from  what  height  it  took 
Its  swoop  on  me,  poor  wretch !  left  thus  deformed 
And  monstrous  to  your  eyes.    For  evermore 
■•    Around  my  virgin-chamber,  wandering  went 
The  nightly  visions  which  entreated  me 
With  syllabled  smooth  swetness. — "  Blessed  maid. 
Why  lengthen  out  thy  maiden  hours  when  fate 
Permits  the  noblest  spousal  in  the  world  ? 
When  Zeus  burns  with  the  arrow  of  thy  love 
And  fain  would  touch  thy  beauty  ? — Maiden,  thou 
Despise  not  Zeus  !  depart  to  Lerne's  mead 
That's  green  around  thy  father's  flocks  and  stalls, 
Until  the  passion  of  the  heavenly  Eye 
Be  quenched  in  sight."    Such  dreams  did  all  night  long 
Constrain  me — me,  unhappy ! — till  I  dared 
To  tell  my  father  how  they  trod  the  dark 
With  visionary  steps.    Whereat  he  sent 


PROMETHEUS   BOUND  25 

His  frequent  heralds  to  the  Pythian  fane, 

And  also  to  Dodona,  and  inquired 

How  best,  by  act  or  speech,  to  please  the  gods. 

The  same  returning  brought  back  oracles 

Of  doubtful  sense,  indefinite  response, 

Dark  to  interpret ;  but  at  last  there  came 

To  Inachus  an  answer  that  was  clear. 

Thrown  straight  as  any  bolt,  and  spoken  out — 

This — "  he  should  drive  me  from  my  home  and  land, 

And  bid  me  wander  to  the  extreme  verge  t---'*''^ 

Of  all  the  earth — or,  if  he  willed  it  not, 

Should  have  a  thunder  with  a  fiery  eye 

Leap  straight  from  Zeus  to  burn  up  all  his  race 

To  the  last  root  of  it."    By  which  Loxian  word 

Subdued,  he  drove  me  forth  and  shut  me  out, 

He  loth,  me  loth — but  Zeus's  violent  bit 

Compelled  him  to  the  deed :  when  instantly 

My  body  and  soul  were  changed  and  distraught,  v-  - 

And,  horned  as  ye  see,  and  spurred  along 

By  the  fanged  insect,  with  a  maniac  leap 

I  rushed  on  to  Cenchrea's  limpid  stream 

And  Leme's  fountain-water.    There,  the  earth-bom, 

The  herdsman  Argus,  most  immitigable 

Of  wrath,  did  find  me  out,  and  track  me  out 

With  countless  eyes  set  staring  at  my  steps : 

And  though  an  unexpected  sudden  doom 

Drew  him  from  life,  I,  curse-tormented  still, 

Am  driven  from  land  to  land  before  the  scourge 

The  gods  hold  o'er  me.    So  thou  hast  heard  the  past. 

And  if  a  bitter  future  thou  canst  tell, 

Speak  on.    I  charge  thee,  do  not  flatter  me 

Through  pity,  with  false  words ;  for,  in  my  mind, 

Deceiving  works  more  shame  than  torturing  doth. 

Chorus. —        Ah !   silence  here ! 

Nevermore,  nevermore 
Would  I  languish  for 
The  stranger's  word 
To  thrill  in  mine  ear — 
Nevermore  for  the  wrong  and  the  woe  and  the  fear 


26  ;eschylus 

So  hard  to  behold, 

So  cruel  to  bear, 
Piercing  my  soul  with  a  double-edged  sword 

Of  a  sliding  cold. 

Ah  Fate !  ah  me ! 

I  shudder  to  see 
This  wandering  maid  in  her  agony. 

Prometheus. — Grief  is  too  quick  in  thee  and  fear  too  full : 
Be  patient  till  thou  hast  learnt  the  rest. 

Chorus.—  Speak:  teach. 

To  those  who  are  sad  already,  it  seems  sweet, 
By  clear  foreknowledge  to  make  perfect,  pain. 

Prometheus. — The  boon  ye  asked  me  first  was  lightly  won, — 
For  first  ye  asked  the  story  of  this  maid's  grief 
As  her  own  lips  might  tell  it.    Now  remains 
To  list  what  other  sorrows  she  so  young 
Must  bear  from  Here.    Inachus's  child, 
O  thou !   drop  down  thy  soul  my  weighty  words, 
And  measure  out  the  landmarks  which  are  set 
To  end  thy  wandering.    Toward  the  orient  sun 
First  turn  thy  face  from  mine  and  journey  on 
Along  the  desert  flats  till  thou  shalt  come 
Where  Scythia's  shepherd  peoples  dwell  aloft. 
Perched  in  w-heeled  wagons  under  woven  roofs. 
And  twang  the  rapid  arrow  past  the  bow — 
Approach  them  not ;  but  siding  in  thy  course 
The  rugged  shore-rocks  resonant  to  the  sea. 
Depart  that  country.    On  the  left  hand  dwell 
The  iron-workers,  called  the  Chalybes, 
Of  whom  beware,  for  certes  they  are  uncouth 
And  nowise  bland  to  strangers.    Reaching  so 
The  stream  Hybristes  (well  the  scorner  called). 
Attempt  no  passage — it  is  hard  to  pass — 
Or  ere  thou  come  to  Caucasus  itself, 
That  highest  of  mountains,  where  the  river  leaps 
The  precipice  in  his  strength.    Thou  must  toil  up 
Those  mountain-tops  that  neighbor  with  the  stars, 
And  tread  the  south  way,  and  draw  near,  at  last, 
The  Amazonian  host  that  hateth  man, 


PROMETHEUS   BOUND  27 

Inhabitants  of  Themiscyra,  close 

Upon  Thermodon,  where  the  sea's  rough  jaw 

Doth  gnash  at  Salmydessa  and  provide 

A  cruel  host  to  seamen,  and  to  ships 

A  stepdame.    They  with  unreluctant  hand 

Shall  lead  thee  on  and  on,  till  thou  arrive 

Just  where  the  ocean-gates  show  narrowest 

On  the  Cimmerian  isthmus.    Leaving  which, 

Behoves  thee  swim  with  fortitude  of  soul 

The  strait  Maeotis.    Ay,  and  evermore 

That  traverse  shall  be  famous  on  men's  lips. 

That  strait,  called  Bosphorus,  the  horned-one's  road, 

So  named  because  of  thee,  who  so  wilt  pass 

From  Europe's  plain  to  Asia's  continent. 

How  think  ye,  nymphs  ?  the  king  of  gods  appears 

Impartial  in  ferocious  deeds  ?    Behold ! 

The  god  desirous  of  this  mortal's  love 

Hath  cursed  her  with  these  wanderings. 

Ah,  fair  child. 

Thou  hast  met  a  bitter  groom  for  bridal  troth ! 

For  all  thou  yet  hast  heard  can  only  prove 

The  incompleted  prelude  of  thy  doom. 

lo.—   Ah!  ah! 

Prometheus. — Is't  thy  turn,  now,  to  shriek  and  moan? 

How  wilt  thou,  when  thou  hast  hearkened  what  remains  ? 

Chorus. — Besides  the  grief  thou  hast  told  can  aught  remain  ? 

Prometheus. — A  sea — of  foredoomed  evil  worked  to  storm. 

lo. —    What  boots  my  life,  then?    why  not  cast  myself 
Down  headlong  from  this  miserable  rock, 
That,  dashed  against  the  flats,  I  may  redeem 
My  soul  from  sorrow  ?    Better  once  to  die 
Than  day  by  day  to  suffer. 

Prometheus. —  Verily, 

It  would  be  hard  for  thee  to  bear  my  woe 
For  whom  it  is  appointed  not  to  die. 
Death  frees  from  woe  :  but  I  before  me  see 
In  all  my  far  prevision  not  a  bound 
To  all  T  suffer,  ere  that  Zeus  shall  fall 
From  being  a  king. 


28  .CSCHYLUS 

lo. —  And  can  it  ever  be 

That  Zeus  shall  fall  from  empire  ? 
Prometheus. —  Thou,  methinks, 

Wouldst  take  some  joy  to  see  it. 
Id, —  Could  I  choose? 

/  who  endure  such  pangs  now,  by  that  god ! 
Prometheus. — Learn  from  me,  therefore,  that  the  event  shall 

be. 
lo. —   By  whom  shall  his  imperial  sceptred  hand 

Be  emptied  so? 
Prometheus. —  Himself  shall  spoil  himself. 

Through  his  idiotic  counsels. 
lo. —  How  ?  declare : 

Unless  the  word  bring  evil. 
Prometheus. —  He  shall  wed; 

And  in  the  marriage-bond  be  joined  to  grief, 
lo. —   A  heavenly  bride — or  human  ?    Speak  it  out 

If  it  be  utterable. 
Prometheus. —  Why  should  I  say  which? 

It  ought  not  to  be  uttered,  verily. 
Ic—  Then 

It  is  his  wife  shall  tear  him  from  his  throne  ? 
Prometheus. — It  is  his  wife  shall  bear  a  son  to  him, 

More  mighty  than  the  father. 
To. —  From  this  doom 

Hath  he  no  refuge? 
Prometheus. —  None:  or  ere  that  I, 

Loosed  from  these  fetters — 
lo. —  Yea — but  who  shall  loose 

While  Zeus  is  adverse  ? 
Prometheus. —  One  who  is  born  of  thee: 

It  is  ordained  so. 
Id. —  What  is  this  thou  sayest? 

A  son  of  mine  shall  liberate  thee  from  woe  ? 
Prometheus. — After  ten  generations,  count  three  more, 

And  find  him  in  the  third. 
Id. —  The  oracle 

Remains  obscure. 
Prometheus. —  And  search  it  not,  to  learn 

Thine  own  griefs  from  it. 


PROMETHEUS   BOUND  29 

lo. —  Point  me  not  to  a  good, 

To  leave  me  straight  bereaved. 

Prometheus. —  I  am  prepared 

To  grant  thee  one  of  two  things. 

lo. —  But  which  two? 

Set  them  before  me ;  grant  me  power  to  choose. 

Prometheus. — I  grant  it ;  choose  now :  shall  I  name  aloud 
What  griefs  remain  to  wound  thee,  or  what  hand 
Shall  save  me  out  of  mine? 

Chorus. —  Vouchsafe,  O  god, 

The  one  grace  of  the  twain  to  her  who  prays ; 
The  next  to  me ;  and  turn  back  neither  prayer 
Dishonor'd  by  denial.    To  herself 
Recount  the  future  wandering  of  her  feet ; 
Then  point  me  to  the  looser  of  thy  chain, 
Because  I  yearn  to  know  him. 

Prometheus. —  Since  ye  will. 

Of  absolute  will,  this  knowledge,  I  will  set 
No  contrary  against  it,  nor  keep  back 
A  word  of  all  ye  ask  for.    lo,  first 
To  thee  I  must  relate  thy  wandering  course 
Far  winding.    As  I  tell  it,  write  it  down 
In  thy  soul's  book  of  memories.    When  thou  hast  past 
The  refluent  bound  that  parts  two  continents, 
Track  on  the  footsteps  of  the  orient  sun 
In  his  own  fire,  across  the  roar  of  seas — 
Fly  till  thou  hast  reached  the  Gorgonaean  flats 
Beside  Cisthene.    There,  the  Phorcides, 
Three  ancient  maidens,  live,  with  shape  of  swan. 
One  tooth  between  them,  and  one  common  eye: 
On  whom  the  sun  doth  never  look  at  all 
With  all  his  rays,  nor  evermore  the  moon 
When  she  looks  through  the  night.    Anear  to  whom 
Are  the  Gorgon  sisters  three,  enclothed  with  wings, 
With  twisted  snakes  for  ringlets,  man-abhorred : 
There  is  no  mortal  gazes  in  their  face 
And  gazing  can  breathe  on.    I  speak  of  such 
To  guard  thee  from  their  horror.    Ay,  and  list 
Another  tale  of  a  dreadful  sight ;  beware 
The  Grifiins,  those  unbarking  dogs  of  Zeus, 


30 


iESCHYLUS 


Those  sharp-mouthed  dogs ! — and  the  Arimaspian  host 

Of  one-eyed  horsemen,  habiting  beside 

The  river  of  Pluto  that  runs  bright  with  gold : 

Approach  them  not,  beseech  thee!    Presently 

Thou'lt  come  to  a  distant  land,  a  dusky  tribe 

Of  dwellers  at  the  fountain  of  the  Sun, 

Whence  flows  the  river  ^thiops ;  wind  along 

Its  banks  and  turn  off  at  the  cataracts, 

Just  as  the  Nile  pours  from  the  Bybline  hills 

His  holy  and  sweet  wave ;  his  course  shall  guide 

Thine  own  to  that  triangular  Nile-ground 

Where,  lo,  is  ordained  for  thee  and  thine 

A  lengthened  exile.    Have  I  said  in  this 

Aught  darkly  or  incompletely? — now  repeat 

The  question,  make  the  knowledge  fuller!    Lo, 

I  have  more  leisure  than  I  covet,  here. 

Chorus. — If  thou  canst  tell  us  aught  that's  left  untold. 
Or  loosely  told,  of  her  most  dreary  flight, 
Declare  it  straight :  but  if  thou  hast  uttered  all. 
Grant  us  that  latter  grace  for  which  we  prayed. 
Remembering  how  we  prayed  it. 

Prometheus. —  She  has  heard 

The  uttermost  of  her  wandering.    There  it  ends. 
But  that  she  may  be  certain  not  to  have  heard 
All  vainly,  I  will  speak  what  she  endured 
Ere  coming  hither,  and  invoke  the  past 
To  prove  my  prescience  true.    And  so — to  leave 
A  multitude  of  words  and  pass  at  once 
To  the  subject  of  thy  course — when  thou  hadst  gone 
To  those  Molossian  plains  which  sweep  around 
Dodona  shouldering  Heaven,  whereby  the  fane 
Of  Zeus  Thesprotian  keepeth  oracle, 
And,  wonder  past  belief,  where  oaks  do  wave 
Articulate  adjurations — (ay,  the  same 
Saluted  thee  in  no  perplexed  phrase 
But  clear  with  glory,  noble  wife  of  Zeus 
That  shouldst  be — there  some  sweetness  took  thy  sense !) 
Thou  didst  rush  further  onward,  stung  along 
The  ocean-shore,  toward  Rhea's  mighty  bay 
And,  tost  back  from  it,  wast  tost  to  it  again 


PROMETHEUS   BOUND  3I 

In  stormy  evolution: — and,  know  well. 

In  coming  time  that  hollow  of  the  sea 

Shall  bear  the  name  Ionian  and  present 

A  monument  of  lo's  passage  through 

Unto  all  mortals.    Be  these  words  the  signs 

Of  my  soul's  power  to  look  beyond  the  veil 

Of  visible  things.    The  rest,  to  you  and  her 

I  will  declare  in  common  audience,  nymphs, 

Returning  thither  where  my  speech  brake  off. 

There  is  a  town  Canopus,  built  upon 

The  earth's  fair  margin  at  the  mouth  of  Nile 

And  on  the  mound  washed  up  by  it ;  lo,  there 

Shall  Zeus  give  back  to  thee  thy  perfect  mind, 

And  only  by  the  pressure  and  the  touch 

Of  a  hand  not  terrible ;  and  thou  to  Zeus 

Shalt  bear  a  dusky  son  who  shall  be  called 

Thence,  Epaphus,  Touched.     That  son  shall  pluck  the 

fruit 
Of  all  that  land  wide-watered  by  the  flow 
Of  Nile ;  but  after  him,  when  counting  out 
As  far  as  the  fifth  full  generation,  then 
Full  fifty  maidens,  a  fair  woman-race, 
Shall  back  to  Argos  turn  reluctantly, 
To  fly  the  proffered  nuptials  of  their  kin, 
Their  father's  brothers.    These  being  passion-struck. 
Like  falcons  bearing  hard  on  flying  doves, 
Shall  follow,  hunting  at  a  quarry  of  love 
They  should  not  hunt ;  till  envious  Heaven  maintairt 
A  curse  betwixt  that  beauty  and  their  desire, 
And  Greece  receive  them,  to  be  overcome 
In  murtherous  woman-war,  by  fierce  red  hands 
Kept  savage  by  the  night.    For  every  wife 
Shall  slay  a  husband,  dyeing  deep  in  blood 
The  sword  of  a  double  edge — (I  wish  indeed 
As  fair  a  marriage-joy  to  all  my  foes!) 
One  bride  alone  shall  fail  to  smite  to  death 
The  head  upon  her  pillow,  touched  with  love, 
Made  impotent  of  purpose  and  impelled 
To  choose  the  lesser  evil — shame  on  her  cheeks, 
Than  blood-guilt  on  her  hands :  which  bride  shall  bear 


3a 


JESCHYLUS 


A  royal  race  in  Argos.    Tedious  speech 
Were  needed  to  relate  particulars 
Of  these  things ;  'tis  enough  that  from  her  seed 
Shall  spring  the  strong  He,  famous  with  the  bow. 
Whose  arm  shall  break  my  fetters  off.    Behold, 
My  mother  Themis,  that  old  fitaness, 
Delivered  to  me  such  an  oracle — 
But  how  and  when,  I  should  be  long  to  speak. 
And  thou,  in  hearing,  wouldst  not  gain  at  all. 
lo. —  Eleleu,  eleleu! 

How  the  spasm  and  the  pain 

And  the  fire  on  the  brain 
Strike,  burning  me  through ! 
How  the  sting  of  the  curse,  all  aflame  as  it  flew. 

Pricks  me  onward  again! 
How  my  heart  in  its  terror  is  spurning  my  breast, 
And  my  eyes,  like  the  wheels  of  a  chariot,  roll  round ! 
I  am  whirled  from  my  course,  to  the  east,  to  the  west. 
In  the  whirlwind  of  frenzy  all  madly  inwound — 
And  my  mouth  is  unbridled  for  anguish  and  hate, 
And  my  words  beat  in  vain,  in  wild  storms  of  unrest. 
On  the  sea  of  my  desolate  fate. 

[lo  rushes  out.] 

Strophe. 

Chorus. —        Oh,  wise  was  he,  oh,  wise  was  he 
Who  first  within  his  spirit  knew 
And  with  his  tongue  declared  it  true 
That  love  comes  best  that  comes  unto 

The  equal  of  degree ! 
And  that  the  poor  and  that  the  low 
Should  seek  no  love  from  those  above, 
Whose  souls  are  fluttered  with  the  flow 
Of  airs  about  their  golden  height. 
Or  proud  because  they  see  arow 

Ancestral  crowns  of  light. 

Antistrophe. 

Oh,  never,  never  may  ye,  Fates, 
Behold  me  with  your  awful  eyes 


PROMETHEUS   BOUND 

Lift  mine  too  fondly  up  the  skies 
Where  Zeus  upon  the  purple  waits ! 

Nor  let  me  step  too  near — too  near 
To  any  suitor,  bright  from  heaven : 

Because  I  see,  because  I  fear 
This  loveless  maiden  vexed  and  sad 
By  this  fell  curse  of  Here,  driven 

On  wanderings  dread  and  drear. 

Epode. 

Nay,  grant  an  equal  troth  instead 
Of  nuptial  love,  to  bind  me  by! 

It  will  not  hurt,  I  shall  not  dread 
To  meet  it  in  reply. 

But  let  not  love  from  those  above 

Revert  and  fix  me,  as  I  said, 
With  that  inevitable  Eye ! 

I  have  no  sv/ord  to  fight  that  fight, 

I  have  no  strength  to  tread  that  path, 

I  know  not  if  my  nature  hath 

The  power  to  bear,  I  cannot  see 

Whither  from  Zeus's  infinite 

I  have  the  power  to  flee. 
Prometheus. — Yet  Zeus,  albeit  most  absolute  of  will, 
Shall  turn  to  meekness — such  a  marriage-rite 
He  holds  in  preparation,  which  anon 
Shall  thrust  him  headlong  from  his  gerent  seat 
Adown  the  abysmal  void,  and  so  the  curse 
His  father  Chronos  muttered  in  his  fall, 
As  he  fell  from  his  ancient  throne  and  cursed, 
Shall  be  accomplished  wholly.    No  escape 
From  all  that  ruin  shall  the  filial  Zeus 
Find  granted  to  him  from  any  of  his  gods. 
Unless  I  teach  him.    I  the  refuge  know, 
And  I,  the  means.    Now,  therefore,  let  him  sit 
And  brave  the  imminent  doom,  and  fix  his  faith 
On  his  supernal  noises,  hurtling  on 
With  restless  hand  the  bolt  that  breathes  out  fire ; 
For  these  things  shall  not  help  him,  none  of  them. 
Nor  hinder  his  perdition  when  he  falls 


33 


34 


yESCHYLUS 


To  shame,  and  lower  than  patience :  such  a  foe 

He  doth  himself  prepare  against  himself, 

A  wonder  of  unconquerable  hate. 

An  organizer  of  sublimer  fire 

Than  glares  in  lightnings,  and  of  grander  sound 

Than  aught  the  thunder  rolls,  out-thundering  it, 

With  power  to  shatter  in  Poseidon's  fist 

The  trident-spear  which,  while  it  plagues  the  sea, 

Doth  shake  the  shores  around  it.    Ay,  and  Zeus, 

Precipitated  thus,  shall  learn  at  length 

The  difference  betwixt  rule  and  servitude. 

Chorus. — Thou  makest  threats  for  Zeus  of  thy  desires. 

Prometheus. — I  tell  you,  all  these  things  shall  be  fulfilled. 
Even  so  as  I  desire  them. 

Chorus. —  Must  we  then 

Look  out  for  one  shall  come  to  master  Zeus  ? 

Prometheus. — These  chains  weigh  lighter  than  his  sorrows 
shall. 

Chorus. — How  art  thou  not  afraid  to  utter  such  words  ? 

Prometheus. — What  should  /  fear  who  cannot  die? 

Chorus. —  But   he 

Can  visit  thee  with  dreader  woe  than  death's. 

Prometheus. — Why,  let  him  do  it !    I  am  here,  prepared 
For  all  things  and  their  pangs. 

Chorus. —  The  wise  are  they 

Who  reverence  Adrasteia. 

Prometheus. —  Reverence  thou. 

Adore  thou,  flatter  thou,  whomever  reigns, 
Whenever  reigning !  but  for  me,  your  Zeus 
Is  less  than  nothing.    Let  him  act  and  reign 
His  brief  hour  out  according  to  his  will — 
He  will  not,  therefore,  rule  the  gods  too  long. 
But  lo !  I  see  that  courier-god  of  Zeus, 
That  new-made  menial  of  the  new-crowned  king: 
He  doubtless  comes  to  announce  to  us  something  new. 

Hermes  enters. 

Hermes. — I  speak  to  thee,  the  sophist,  the  talker-down 
Of  scorn  by  scorn,  the  sinner  against  gods. 
The  reverencer  of  men,  the  thief  of  fire — 


PROMETHEUS   BOUND  35 

I  speak  to  thee  and  adjure  thee !    Zeus  requires 
Thy  declaration  of  what  marriage-rite 
Thus  moves  thy  vaunt  and  shall  hereafter  cause 
His  fall  from  empire.    Do  not  wrap  thy  speech 
In  riddles,  but  speak  clearly !    Never  cast 
Ambiguous  paths,  Prometheus,  for  my  feet, 
Since  Zeus,  thou  mayst  perceive,  is  scarcely  won 
To  mercy  by  such  means. 

Prometheus. —  A  speech  well-mouthed 

In  the  utterance,  and  full-minded  in  the  sense, 
As  doth  befit  a  servant  of  the  gods ! 
New  gods,  ye  newly  reign,  and  think  forsooth 
Ye  dwell  in  towers  too  high  for  any  dart 
To  carry  a  wound  there ! — have  I  not  stood  by 
While  two  kings  fell  from  thence  ?  and  shall  I  not 
Behold  the  third,  the  same  who  rules  you  now. 
Fall,  shamed  to  sudden  ruin  ? — Do  I  seem 
To  tremble  and  quail  before  your  modern  gods? 
Far  be  it  from  me ! — For  thyself,  depart, 
Retread  thy  steps  in  haste.    To  all  thou  hast  asked 
I  answer  nothing. 

Hermes. —  Such  a  wind  of  pride 

Impelled  thee  of  yore  full-sail  upon  these  rocks. 

Prometheus. — I  would  not  barter — learn  thou  soothly  that  I— 
My  suffering  for  thy  service.    I  maintain 
It  is  a  nobler  thing  to  serve  these  rocks 
Than  live  a  faithful  slave  to  father  Zeus. 
Thus  upon  scorners  I  retort  their  scorn. 

Hermes. — It  seems  that  thou  dost  glory  in  thy  despair. 

Prometheus. — I  glory?  would  my  foes  did  glory  so, 
And  I  stood  by  to  see  them ! — naming  whom. 
Thou  are  not  unremembered. 

Hermes. —  Dost  thou  charge 

Me  also  with  the  blame  of  thy  mischance? 

Prometheus. — I  tell  thee  I  loathe  the  universal  gods. 
Who  for  the  good  I  gave  them  rendered  back 
The  ill  of  their  injustice. 

Hermes. —  Thou  art  mad — 

Thou  are  raving.  Titan,  at  the  fever-height. 


36  iESCHYLUS 

Prometheus. — If  it  be  madness  to  abhor  my  foes, 
May  I  be  mad ! 

Hermes. —  If  thou  wert  prosperous 

Thou  wouldst  be  unendurable. 

Prometheus. —  Alas ! 

Hermes. — Zeus  knows  not  that  word. 

Prometheus. —  But  maturing  Time 

Teaches  all  things. 

Hermes. — Howbeit,  thou  hast  not  learnt 
The  wisdom  yet,  thou  needest. 

Prometheus. —  If  I  had, 

I  should  not  talk  thus  with  a  slave  like  thee. 

Hermes. — No  answer  thou  vouchsafest,  I  believe, 
To  the  great  Sire's  requirement. 

Prometheus. —  Verily 

I  owe  him  grateful  service — and  should  pay  it. 

Hermes. — Why,  thou  dost  mock  me,  Titan,  as  I  stood 
A  child  before  thy  face. 

Prometheus. —  No  child,  forsooth, 

But  yet  more  foolish  than  a  foolish  child. 
If  thou  expect  that  I  should  answer  aught 
Thy  Zeus  can  ask.    No  torture  from  his  hand 
Nor  any  machination  in  the  world 
Shall  force  mine  utterance  ere  he  loose,  himself, 
These  cankerous  fetters  from  me.    For  the  rest, 
Let  him  now  hurl  his  blanching  lightnings  down, 
And  with  his  white-winged  snows  and  mutterings  deep 
Of  subterranean  thunders  mix  all  things, 
Confound  them  in  disorder.    None  of  this 
Shall  bend  my  sturdy  will  and  make  me  speak 
The  name  of  his  dethroner  who  shall  come. 

Hermes. — Can  this  avail  thee  ?    Look  to  it ! 

Prometheus. —  Long  ago 

It  was  looked  forward  to,  precounselled  of. 

Hermes. — Vain  god,  take  righteous  courage !  dare  for  once 
To  apprehend  and  front  thine  agonies 
With  a  just  prudence. 

Prometheus. —  Vainly  dost  thou  chafe 

My  soul  with  exhortation,  as  yonder  sea 
Gkies  beating  on  the  rock.    Oh,  think  no  more 


PROMETHEUS   BOUND 

That  I,  fear-struck  by  Zeus  to  a  woman's  mind, 

Will  supplicate  him,  loathed  as  he  is, 

With  feminine  upliftings  of  my  hands, 

To  break  these  chains.    Far  from  me  be  the  thought ! 

Hermes. — I  have  indeed,  methinks,  said  much  in  vain, 
For  still  thy  heart  beneath  my  showers  of  prayers 
Lies  dry  and  hard — nay,  leaps  like  a  young  horse 
Who  bites  against  the  new  bit  in  his  teeth. 
And  tugs  and  struggles  against  the  new-tried  rein — 
Still  fiercest  in  the  feeblest  thing  of  all. 
Which  sophism  is ;  since  absolute  will  disjoined 
From  perfect  mind  is  worse  than  weak.    Behold, 
Unless  my  words  persuade  thee,  what  a  blast 
And  whirlwind  of  inevitable  woe 
Must  sweep  persuasion  through  thee !    For  at  first 
The  Father  will  split  up  this  jut  of  rock 
With  the  great  thunder  and  the  bolted  fiame 
And  hide  thy  body  where  a  hinge  of  stone 
Shall  catch  it  like  an  arm ;  and  when  thou  hast  passed 
A  long  black  time  within,  thou  shalt  come  out 
To  front  the  sun  while  Zeus's  winged  hound. 
The  strong  carnivorous  eagle,  shall  wheel  down 
To  meet  thee,  self-called  to  a  daily  feast, 
And  set  his  fierce  beak  in  thee  and  tear  off 
The  long  rags  of  thy  flesh  and  batten  deep 
Upon  thy  dusky  liver.    Do  not  look 
For  any  end  moreover  to  this  curse 
Or  ere  some  god  appear,  to  accept  thy  pangs 
On  his  own  head  vicarious,  and  descend 
With  unreluctant  step  the  darks  of  hell 
And  gloomy  abysses  around  Tartarus. 
Then  ponder  this — this  threat  is  not  a  growth 
Of  vain  invention ;  it  is  spoken  and  meant ; 
King  Zeus's  mouth  is  impotent  to  lie. 
Consummating  the  utterance  by  the  act ; 
So,  look  to  it,  thou !  take  heed,  and  nevermore 
Forget  good  counsel,  to  indulge  self-will. 

Chorus. — Our  Hermes  suits  his  reasons  to  the  times ; 
At  least  I  think  so,  since  he  bids  thee  drop 


37 


38  ^SCHYLUS 

Self-will  for  prudent  counsel.    Yield  to  him ! 
When  the  wise  err,  their  wisdom  makes  their  shame. 
Prometheus. — Unto   me   the   foreknower,   this   mandate  of 
power 

He  cries,  to  reveal  it. 
What's  strange  in  my  fate,  if  I  suffer  from  hate 

At  the  hour  that  I  feel  it? 
Let  the  locks  of  the  lightning,  all  bristling  and  whitening, 

Flash,  coiling  me  round. 
While  the  aether  goes  surging  'neath  thunder  and  scourg- 
ing 

Of  wild  winds  unbound! 
Let  the  blast  of  the  firmament  whirl  from  its  place 

The  earth  rooted  below, 
And  the  brine  of  the  ocean,  in  rapid  emotion, 

Be  driven  in  the  face 
Of  the  stars  up  in  heaven,  as  they  walk  to  and  fro  I 
Let  him  hurl  me  anon  into  Tartarus — on — 

To  the  blackest  degree, 
With  Necessity's  vortices  strangling  me  down; 
But  he  cannot  join  death  to  a  fate  meant  for  tne! 
Hermes. — Why,  the  words  that  he  speaks  and  the  thoughts  that 
he  thinks 

Are  maniacal ! — add. 
If  the  Fate  who  hath  bound  him  should  loose  not  the 
links, 

He  were  utterly  mad. 
Then  depart  ye  who  groan  with  hin% 
Leaving  to  moan  with  him — 
Go  in  haste !  lest  the  roar  of  the  thunder  anearing 
Should  blast  you  to  idiocy,  living  and  hearing. 
Chorus. — Change  thy  speech  for  another,  thy  thought  for  a 
new. 
If  to  move  me  and  teach  me  indeed  be  thy  care  I 
For  thy  words  swerve  so  far  from  the  loyal  and  true 

That  the  thunder  of  Zeus  seems  more  easy  to  bear. 
How !  couldst  teach  me  to  venture  such  vileness  ?  behold ! 

I  choose,  with  this  victim,  this  anguish  foretold! 
I  recoil  from  the  traitor  in  hate  and  disdain, 


PROMETHEUS   BOUND  39 

And  I  know  that  the  curse  of  the  treason  is  worse 
Than  the  pang  of  the  chain. 
Hermes. — Then  remember,  O  nymphs,  what  I  tell  you  before. 
Nor,  when  pierced  by  the  arrows  that  Ate  will  throw 
you, 
Cast  blame  on  your  fate  and  declare  evermore 

That  Zeus  thrust  you  on  anguish  he  did  not  fore- 
show you. 
Nay,  verily,  nay !  for  ye  perish  anon 

For  your  deed — by  your  choice.    By  no  blindness  of 
doubt, 
No  abruptness  of  doom,  but  by  madness  alone. 

In  the  great  net  of  Ate,  whence  none  cometh  out. 
Ye  are  wound  and  undone. 
Prometheus. — Ay !  in  act  now,  in  word  now  no  more, 
Earth  is  rocking  in  space. 
And  the  thunders  crash  up  with  a  roar  upon  roar, 

And  the  eddying  lightnings  flash  fire  in  my  face, 
And  the  whirlwinds  are  whirling  the  dust  round  and 
round, 
And  the  blasts  of  the  winds  universal  leap  free 
And  blow  each  upon  each  with  a  passion  of  sound, 

And  aether  goes  mingling  in  storm  with  the  sea. 
Such  a  curse  on  my  head,  in  a  manifest  dread, 

From  the  hand  of  your  Zeus  has  been  hurtled  along. 
O  my  mother's  fair  glory !    O  ^ther,  enringing 
All  eyes  with  the  sweet  common  light  of  thy  bringing ! 
Dost  see  how  I  suffer  this  wrong? 


Classics.     Vol.  36 — C 


CEDIPUS    REX 

BY 

SOPHOCLES 

[Metrical  Translation  by  E.  H.  Plumptre] 


DRAMATIS   PERSONvE 

CEdipus,  King  of  Thebes. 

Creon,  brother  of  Jocasta. 

Teiresias,  a  soothsayer. 

Priest  of  Zeus. 

Messenger  from  Corinth. 

Shepherd. 

Second  Messenger. 

Jocasta,,  wife  of  CEdipus. 

Antigone  and  Ismene,  children  of  CEdipus. 

Chorus  of  Priests  and  SuppHants. 

Chorus  of  Theban  Citizens. 


CEDIPUS   REX 


SCENE.— THEBES 

In  the  background,  the  palace  of  CEdipus;  in  front,  the  altar 
of  Zeus,  priests  and  boys  round  it  in  the  attitude  of  sup- 
pliants. 

Enter  CEdipus. 

CEdipus. — Why  sit  ye  here,  my  children,  youngest  brood 
Of  Cadmos  famed  of  old,  in  solemn  state, 
Your  hands  thus  wreathed  with  the  suppliants*  boughs  ? 
And  all  the  city  reeks  with  incense  smoke, 
And  all  re-echoes  with  your  hymns  and  groans; 
And  I,  my  children,  counting  it  unmeet 
To  hear  report  from  others,  I  have  come 
Myself,  whom  all  name  CEdipus  the  Great. 
Do  thou,  then,  aged  Sire,  since  thine  the  right 
To  speak  for  these,  tell  clearly  how  ye  stand, 
In  terror  or  submission ;  speak  to  me 
As  willing  helper.    Heartless  should  I  be 
To  see  you  prostrate  thus,  and  feel  no  ruth. 

Priest. — Yea,  CEdipus,  thou  ruler  of  my  land. 

Thou  seest  our  age,  who  sit  as  suppliants,  bowed 

Around  thine  altars ;  some  as  yet  too  weak 

For  distant  flight,  and  some  weighed  down  with  age, 

Priest,  I,  of  Zeus,  and  these  the  chosen  youth : 

And  in  the  market-places  of  the  town 

The  people  sit  and  wail,  with  wreath  in  hand, 

By  the  two  shrines  of  Pallas,^  or  the  grave, 

Where  still  the  seer  Ismenos  prophesies. 

*  Probably,  as  at  Athens  Athena  had        dedicated  to  her  under  different  names, 
two   temples    as    Polias    and    Parthenos,        as  Onkaea  and  Ismenia. 
•o  also  at  Thebes  there  were  two  shrines 

43 


44  SOPHOCLES 

For  this  our  city,  as  thine  eyes  may  see, 

Is  sorely  tempest-tossed,  nor  lifts  its  head 

From  out  the  surging  sea  of  blood-flecked  waves, 

All  smitten  in  the  ripening  blooms  of  earth. 

All  smitten  in  the  herds  that  graze  the  fields, 

Yea,  and  in  timeless  births  of  woman's  fruit ; 

And  still  the  God,  fire-darting  Pestilence, 

As  deadliest  foe,  upon  our  city  swoops. 

And  desolates  the  home  where  Cadmos  dwelt, 

And  Hades  dark  grows  rich  in  sighs  and  groans. 

It  is  not  that  we  deem  of  thee  as  one 

Equalled  with  gods  in  power,  that  we  sit  here. 

These  little  ones  and  I,  as  suppliants  prone; 

But,  judging  thee,  in  all  life's  shifting  scenes, 

Chiefest  of  men,  yea,  and  of  chiefest  skill 

In  communings  with  Heaven.    For  thou  didst  come 

And  freed'st  this  city,  named  of  Cadmos  old. 

From  the  sad  tribute  which  of  yore  we  paid 

To  that  stem  songstress,^  all  untaught  of  us, 

And  all  unprompted ;  but  by  gift  of  God, 

Men  think  and  say,  thou  didst  our  life  upraise. 

And  now,  dear  CEdipus,  most  honored  lord, 

We  pray  thee,  we  thy  suppliants,  find  for  us 

Some  succor,  whether  voice  of  any  God, 

Or  any  man  brings  knowledge  to  thy  soul ; 

For  still  I  see,  with  those  whom  life  has  trained 

To  long-tried  skill,  the  issues  of  their  thoughts 

Live  and  are  mighty.    Come  then,  noblest  one. 

Raise  up  our  city ;  come,  take  heed  to  it ; 

As  yet  this  land,  for  all  thy  former  zeal. 

Calls  thee  its  saviour :  do  not  give  us  cause 

So  to  remember  this  thy  reign,  as  men 

Who  having  risen,  then  fall  low  again ; 

But  raise  our  state  to  safety.    Omens  good 

Were  then  with  thee ;   thou  didst  thy  work,  and  now 

Be  equal  to  thyself!    If  thou  wilt  rule, 

As  thou  dost  sway,  this  land  wherein  we  dwell, 

'Twere  better  far  to  rule  o'er  living  men 

"The  tribute  of  human  victims  paid        slatightered,"  till  her  riddle  was  solved 
to    the    Sphinx,    the    "  Muse    of    the        by  ^dipus. 


CEDIPUS  REX  45 

Than  o'er  a  realm  dispeopled.    Nought  avails, 
Or  tower  or  ship,  when  men  are  not  within. 

CEdipus. — O  children,  wailing  loud,  ye  come  with  wish 
Well-known,  not  unknown ;  well  I  know  that  ye 
Are  smitten,  one  and  all,  with  taint  of  plague. 
And  yet  though  smitten,  none  that  taint  of  plague 
Feels,  as  I  feel  it.    Each  his  burden  bears, 
His  own  and  not  another's ;  but  my  heart 
Mourns  for  the  state,  for  you,  and  for  myself ; 
And,  lo,  ye  wake  me  not  as  plunged  in  sleep. 
But  find  me  weeping,  weeping  many  tears, 
And  treading  many  paths  in  wandering  thought ; 
And  that  one  way  of  health  I,  seeking,  found, 
This  have  I  acted  on.    Menoekeus'  son, 
Creon,  my  kinsman,  have  I  sent  to  seek 
The  Pythian  home  of  Phoebos,  there  to  learn 
The  words  or  deeds  wherewith  to  save  the  state ; 
And  even  now  I  measure  o'er  the  time. 
And  ask,  "  How  fares  he  ?  "  grieving,  for  he  stays, 
Most  strangely,  far  beyond  the  appointed  day ; 
But  when  he  comes,  I  should  be  base  indeed. 
Failing  to  do  whate'er  the  God  declares. 

Priest. — Well  hast  thou  spoken !    And  these  bring  me  word, 
That  Creon  comes  advancing  on  his  way. 

CEdipus. — O  king  Apollo,  may  he  come  with  chance 

That  brings  deliverance,  as  his  looks  are  bright. 

Priest. — If  one  may  guess,  he's  glad.    He  had  not  come 
Crowned  with  rich  wreaths  ^  of  fruitful  laurel  else. 

CEdipus. — Soon  we  shall  know.    Our  voice  can  reach  him  now. 
Say,  prince,  our  well-beloved,  Menoekeus'  son. 
What  sacred  answer  bring'st  thou  from  the  God  ? 

Enter  Creon. 

Creon. — A  right  good  answer !    E'en  our  evil  plight. 
If  all  goes  well,  may  end  in  highest  good. 

CEdipus. — What  were  the  words  ?    Nor  full  of  eager  hope. 
Nor  trembling  panic,  list  I  to  thy  speech. 

■  Creon,  coming  from  Delphi,  wears  a        berries  mingling  with  the  dark,  glossy 
wreath  of  the  Parnassian  laurel,  its  red        leaves. 


46  SOPHOCLES 

Creon. — I,  if  thou  wish,  am  ready,  these  being  by, 

To  tell  thee  all,  w  gO  within  the  gates. 
CEdipus. — Speak  out  to  all.    I  sorrow  more  for  them 

Than  for  the  woe  ^hich  touches  me  alone. 
Creon. — I  then  will  speak  what  from  the  God  I  heard : 

King  Phoebos  bids  us  chase  the  plague  away 

(The  words  were  plain)  now  cleaving  to  our  land, 

Nor  cherish  guilt  which  still  remains  unhealed. 
CEdipus. — But  with  what  rites  ?    And  what  the  deed  itself  ? 
Creon. — Or  drive  far  off,  or  blood  for  blood  repay ; 

That  guilt  of  blood  is  blasting  all  the  state. 
CEdipus. — But  whose  fate  is  it  that  He  pointeth  to? 
Creon. — Once,  O  my  king,  ere  thou  didst  guide  our  state, 

Our  sovereign  Laios  ruled  o'er  all  the  land. 
CEdipus. — So  have  I  heard,  for  him  I  never  saw. 
Creon. — Now  the  God  clearly  bids  us,  he  being  dead, 

To  take  revenge  on  those  who  shed  his  blood. 
CEdipus. — Yes ;  but  where  are  they  ?    How  to  track  the  course 

Of  guilt  all  shrouded  in  the  doubtful  past? 
Creon. — In  this  our  land,  so  said  He ;  those  who  seek 

Shall  find ;  unsought,  we  lose  it  utterly. 
CEdipus. — Was  it  at  home,  or  in  the  field,  or  else 

In  some  strange  land  that  Laios  met  his  doom  ? 
Creon. — He  went,  so  spake  he,  pilgrim-wise  afar. 

And  never  more  came  back  as  forth  he  went. 
CEdipus. — Was  there  no  courier,  none  who  shared  his  road, 

Who  knew  what,  learning,  one  might  turn  to  good  ? 
Creon. — Dead  were  they  all,  save  one  who  fled  for  fear. 

And  he  knew  nought  to  tell  but  one  small  fact. 
CEdipus  [Interrupting] . — And  what  was  that  ?    One  fact  might 
teach  us  much. 

Had  we  but  one  small  starting-point  of  hope. 
Creon. — He  used  to  tell  that  robbers  fell  on  him. 

Not  man  for  man,  but  with  outnumbering  force. 
CEdipus. — How  could  the  robber  e'er  have  dared  this  deed. 

Unless  some  bribe  from  hence  had  tempted  him  ? 
Creon. — So  men  might  think;   but  Laios  having  died, 

There  was  no  helper  for  us  in  our  ills. 
CEdipus. — What  ill  then  hindered,  when  your  sovereignty 

Had  fallen  thus,  from  searching  out  the  truth  ? 


CEDIPUS  REX 


47 


Creon. — The  Sphinx,  with  her  dark  riddle,  bade  us  look 
At  nearer  facts,  and  leave  the  dim  obscure. 

CEdipus. — Well,  be  it  mine  to  track  them  to  their  source. 
Right  well  hath  Phcebos,  and  right  well  hast  thou, 
Shown  for  the  dead  your  care,  and  ye  shall  find, 
As  is  most  meet,  in  me  a  helper  true, 
Aiding  at  once  my  country  and  the  God. 
It  is  not  for  the  sake  of  friends  remote, 
But  for  mine  own,  that  I  dispel  this  pest ; 
For  he  that  slew  him,  whosoe'er  he  be, 
Will  wish,  perchance,  with  such  a  blow  to  smite 
Me  also.    Helping  him,  I  help  myself. 
And  now,  my  children,  rise  with  utmost  speed 
From  off  these  steps,  and  raise  your  suppliant  boughs ; 
And  let  another  call  my  people  here. 
The  race  of  Cadmos,  and  make  known  that  I 
Will  do  my  taskwork  to  the  uttermost : 
So,  as  God  wills,  we  prosper,  or  we  fail. 

Priest. — Rise  then,  my  children,  'twas  for  this  we  came. 

For  these  good  tidings  which  those  lips  have  brought, 

And  Phoebos,  who  hath  sent  these  oracles. 

Pray  that  He  come  to  save,  and  heal  our  plague. 

[Exeunt  Creon,  Priests,  and  Suppliants:  march- 
ing in  procession^ 

Enter  Chorus  of  Theban  citizens. 

Strophe  I. 

Chorus. — O  word  of  Zeus,*  glad-voiced,  with  what  intent 
From  Pytho,  bright  with  gold, 
Cam'st  thou  to  Thebes,  our  city  of  high  fame? 

For  lo:    I  faint  for  fear. 
Through  all  my  soul  I  quiver  in  suspense, 
(Hear,  lo  Paean !  God  of  Delos,^  hear !) 
In  brooding  dread,  what  doom,  of  present  growth, 
Or  as  the  months  roll  on,  thy  hand  will  work ; 
Tell  me,  O  deathless  Voice,  thou  child  of  golden  hope ! 

*  The  oracle,  though  given  by  Apollo,  *  Apollo,      born      in      Dclos,      passed 

it  yet  the  voice  of  Zeus,  of  whom  Apollo        through  Attica  to  Pytho,  his  shrine  at 
is  but  the  prophet,  spokesman.  Delphi. 


48  SOPHOCLES 

Antistrophe  I. 

Thee  first,  Zeus-born  Athena,  thee  I  call. 

Divine  and  deathless  One, 
And  next  thy  sister,  Goddess  of  our  land, 

Our  Artemis,  who  sits, 
Queen  of  our  market,  on  encircled  throne ; 
And  Phoebos,  the  far-darter !    O  ye  Three,' 
Shine  on  us,  and  deliver  us  from  ill ! 
If  e'er  before,  when  storms  of  woe  oppressed. 
Ye  stayed  the  fiery  tide,  O  come  and  help  us  now ! 

Strophe  II. 

Ah  me,  ah  me,  for  sorrows  numberless 

Press  on  my  soul ; 
And  all  the  host  is  smitten,  and  our  thoughts 

Lack  weapons  to  resist. 
For  increase  fails  of  fruits  of  goodly  earth, 
And  women  sink  in  childbirth's  wailing  pangs, 

And  one  by  one,  as  flit 

The  swift-winged  birds  through  air. 
So,  flitting  to  the  shore  of  Him  who  dwells 

Down  in  the  darkling  West,^ 

Fleeter  than  mightiest  fire, 

Thou  see'st  them  passing  on. 

Antistrophe  II. 

Yea,  numberless  are  they  who  perish  thus ; 

And  on  the  earth, 
Still  breeding  plague,  unpitied  infants  lie. 

Cast  out  all  ruthlessly ; 
And  wives  and  mothers,  grey  with  hoary  age, 
Some  here,  some  there,  by  every  altar  mourn, 

With  woe  and  sorrow  crushed. 

And  chant  their  wailing  plaint. 
Clear  thrills  the  sense  their  solemn  Paean  cry, 

«  The  Three  named— Athena,  Artemis,  ">  Pluto,  dwellins  where  the  sun  sinks 

Phoebos — were    the   guardian    deities    of  into   darkness.     The    symbolism    of   the 

Thebes;  but  the  tendency  to  bring  three  West  as  the  region  of  dead  and  evil,  of 

names  together  in  one   group  in  oaths  the    East    as    that    of    light    and    truth, 

and    invocations    runs    through    Greek  belongs  to  the  earliest  parables  of  nat- 

worship  generally.  ure. 


GEDIPUS  REX  49 

And  the  sad  anthem  song ; 
Hear,  golden  child  of  Zeus, 
And  send  us  bright-eyed  help. 

Strophe  III. 

And  Ares  the  destroyer  drive  away ! ' 

Who  now,  though  hushed  the  din 

Of  brazen  shield  and  spear, 

With  fiercest  battle-cry 

Wars  on  me  mightily. 

Bid  him  go  back  in  flight. 

Retreat  from  this  our  land. 

Or  to  the  ocean  bed. 

Where  Amphitrite  sleeps, 
Or  to  that  haven  of  the  homeless  sea 

Which  sweeps  the  Thracian  shore.* 

If  waning  night  spares  aught. 

That  doth  the  day  assail : 

Do  thou,  then,  Sire  almighty. 

Wielding  the  lightning's  strength. 
Blast  him  with  thy  dread  fiery  thunderbolts. 

Antistrophe  III. 

And  thou,  Lyceian  king,  the  wolf's  dread  foe. 

Fain  would  I  see  thy  darts 

From  out  thy  golden  bow 

Go  forth  invincible. 

Helping  and  bringing  aid ; 

And  with  them,  winged  with  fire, 

The  rays  of  Artemis, 

With  which  on  Lyceian  hills. 

She  moveth  on  her  course. 
And  last,  O  golden-crowned,  I  call  on  thee, 

Named  after  this  our  land," 

•  The  Pestilence,  previously  person!-  Neptune,  or  to  the  northern  coasts  of 
fied.  is  now  identified  with  Ares,  the  the  Euxine,  where  Ares  was  worshipped 
Goa  of  slaughter,  and,  as  such,  the  foe       as  the  special  God  of  the  Thracians. 

of  the  more  benign  deities.  *"  Bacchos,    as    bom    in    Thebes,    was 

•  The  Chorus  prays  that  the  pestilence  known  as  the  Cadmeian  king,  the  Boeo- 
tnay  be  driven  either  to  the  far  western  tian  God,  while  Thebes  took  from  him 
ocean,  beyond  the  i^illars  of   Heracles,  the  epithet  Bacchia. 

the  couch  of  Amphitrite,   the   bride  of 


50  SOPHOCLES 

Bacchos,  all  flushed  with  wine. 

With  clamor  loud  and  long, 

Wandering  with  Maenads  wild, 

Flashing  with  blazing  torch, 
Draw  near  against  the  God  whom  all  the  Gods  disown.^^ 
CEdipus. — Thou  prayest,  and  for  thy  prayers,  if  thou  wilt  hear 
My  words,  and  treat  the  dire  disease  with  skill. 
Thou  shalt  find  help  and  respite  from  thy  pain — 
My  words,  which  I,  a  stranger  to  report, 
A  stranger  to  the  deed,  will  now  declare : 
For  I  myself  should  fail  to  track  it  far. 
Finding  no  trace  to  guide  my  steps  aright. 
But  now,  as  I  have  joined  you  since  the  deed, 
A  citizen  with  citizens,  I  speak 
To  all  the  sons  of  Cadmos.    Lives  there  one 
Who  knows  of  Laios,  son  of  Labdacos, 
The  hand  that  slew  him ;  him  I  bid  to  tell 
His  tale  to  me ;  and  should  it  chance  he  shrinks 
From  raking  up  the  charge  against  himself, 
Still  let  him  speak ;  no  heavier  doom  is  his 
Than  to  depart  uninjured  from  the  land ; 
Or,  if  there  be  that  knows  an  alien  arm 
As  guilty,  let  him  hold  his  peace  no  more ; 
I  will  secure  his  gain  and  thanks  beside. 
But  if  ye  hold  your  peace,  if  one  through  fear, 
Or  for  himself,  or  friend,  shall  hide  this  thing, 
What  then  I  purpose  let  him  hear  from  me. 
That  man  I  banish,  whosoe'er  he  be. 
From  out  this  land  whose  powei  and  throne  are  mine; 
And  none  may  give  him  shelter,  none  speak  to  him, 
Nor  join  with  him  in  prayers  and  sacrifice. 
Nor  give  him  share  in  holy  lustral  stream ; 
But  all  shall  thrust  him  from  their  homes,  declared 
Our  curse  and  our  pollution,  as  but  now 
The  Pythian  God's  prophetic  word  has  shown : 
With  acts  like  this,  I  stand  before  you  here, 
A  helper  to  the  God  and  to  the  dead. 
All  this  I  charge  you  do,  for  mine  own  sake, 

^  So,  in  the  Iliad,  Ares  is.  of  all  the        (v.  800),  as  the  cause  of  all  Strife  and 
Gods  of  Olympos,  most  hateful  to  Zeus        slaughter. 


CEDIPUS  REX  51 

And  for  the  God's,  and  for  this  land  that  pines, 
Barren  and  god-deserted.    Wrong  'twould  be 
E'en  if  no  voice  from  heaven  had  urged  us  on, 
That  ye  should  leave  the  stain  of  guilt  uncleansed. 
Your  noblest  chief,  your  king  himself,  being  slain. 
Yea,  rather,  seek  and  find.    And  since  I  reign, 
Wielding  the  might  his  hand  did  wield  before, 
Filling  his  couch,  and  calling  his  wife  mine. 
Yea,  and  our  offspring  too,  but  for  the  fate 
That  fell  on  his,  had  grown  in  brotherhood ; 
But  now  an  evil  chance  on  his  head  swooped ; 
And  therefore  will  I  strive  my  best  for  him. 
As  for  my  father,  and  will  go  all  lengths 
To  seek  and  find  the  murderer,  him  who  slew 
The  son  of  Labdacos,  and  Polydore, 
And  earlier  Cadmos,  and  Agenor  old ;  ^^ 
And  for  all  those  who  hearken  not,  I  pray 
The  gods  to  give  them  neither  fruit  of  earth, 
Nor  seed  of  woman,^^  but  consume  their  lives 
With  this  dire  plague,  or  evil  worse  than  this. 
And  for  the  man  who  did  the  guilty  deed, 
Whether  alone  he  lurks,  or  leagued  with  more, 
I  pray  that  he  may  waste  his  life  away. 
For  vile  deeds  vilely  dying ;  and  for  me, 
If  in  my  house,  I  knowing  it,  he  dwells. 
May  every  curse  I  spake  on  my  head  fall. 
And  you,  the  rest,  the  men  from  Cadmos  sprung, 
To  whom  these  words  approve  themselves  as  good, 
May  righteousness  befriend  you,  and  the  gods. 
In  full  accord,  dwell  with  you  evermore. 

Chorus. — Since  thou  hast  bound  me  by  a  curse,  O  king, 
I  will  speak  thus.    I  neither  slew  the  man. 
Nor  know  who  slew.    To  say  who  did  the  deed 
Is  quest  for  Him  who  sent  us  on  the  search. 

CEdipus. — Right  well  thou   speak'st,  but  man's  best   strength 
must  fail 
To  force  the  Gods  to  do  the  things  they  will  not. 

"  CEdipus,    as    if    identifying    himself  ''  The  imprecation  agrees  almost  ver- 

already    with    the    kingly    house,    goes  bally  with  the  curse  of  the  Amphictyoaic 

through  the  whole  genealogy  up  to  the  councils  against   sacrilege, 
remote  ancestor. 


5« 


SOPHOCLES 


Chorus. — Fain  would  I  speak  the  thoughts  that  second  stand. 

CEdipus. — Though  there  be  third,  shrink  not  from  speaking  out. 

Chorus. — One  man  I  know,  a  prince,  whose  insight  deep 
Sees  clear  as  princely  Phoebos,  and  from  him, 
Teiresias,  one  might  learn,  O  king,  the  truth. 

CEdipus. — That  too  is  done.    No  loiterer  I  in  this. 
For  I,  on  Creon's  hint,  two  couriers  sent 
To  summon  him,  and  wonder  that  he  comes  not. 

Chorus. — Old  rumors  are  there  also,  dark  and  dumb. 

CEdipus. — And  what  are  they  ?    I  weigh  the  slightest  word. 

Chorus. — 'Twas  said  he  died  by  some  chance  traveller's  hand. 

CEdipus. — I,  too,  heard  that.    But  none  the  eye-witness  sees. 

Chorus. — If  yet  his  soul  be  capable  of  awe, 

Hearing  thy  curses,  he  will  shrink  from  them. 

CEdipus. — Words  fright  not  him,  who  doing,  knows  no  fear. 

Chorus. — Well,  here  is  one  who'll  put  him  to  the  proof. 
For  lo !  they  bring  the  seer  inspired  of  God, 
With  whom  alone  of  all  men,  truth  abides. 

Enter  Teiresias,  blind,  atid  guided  by  a  boy, 

CEdipus. — Teiresias !  thou  whose  mind  embraceth  all. 

Told  or  untold,  of  heaven  or  paths  of  earth ; 

Thou  knowest,  although  thou  see'st  not,  what  a  pest 

Dwells  on  us,  and  we  find  in  thee,  O  prince. 

Our  one  deliverer,  yea,  our  only  help. 

For  Phoebos  (if  the  couriers  told  thee  not) 

Sent  back  this  word  to  us,  who  sent  to  ask, 

That  this  one  way  was  open  to  escape 

From  this  fell  plague — if  those  who  Laios  slew. 

We  in  our  turn  discovering  should  slay. 

Or  drive  them  forth  as  exiles  from  the  land. 

Thou,  therefore,  grudge  not  either  sign  from  birds. 

Or  any  other  path  of  prophecy ; 

But  save  the  city,  save  thyself,  save  me ; 

Save  from  the  curse  the  dead  has  left  behind ; 

On  thee  we  hang.    To  use  our  means,  our  power. 

In  doing  good,  is  noblest  service  owned. 
Teiresias. — Ah  me !  ah  me !  how  dread  is  wisdom's  gift. 

When  no  good  issue  waiteth  on  the  wise ! 


(EDIPUS  REX  53 

I  knew  it  all  too  well,  and  then  forgot, 

Or  else  I  had  not  on  this  journey  come. 
CEdipus. — What  means  this  ?    How  despondingly  thou  com'st ! 
Teiresias. — Let  me  go  home !  for  thus  thy  lot  shalt  thou, 

And  I  mine  own,  bear  easiest,  if  thou  yield. 
CEdipus. — No  loyal  words  thou  speak'st,  nor  true  to  Thebes 

Who  reared  thee,  holding  back  this  oracle. 
Teiresias. — I  see  thy  lips  speak  words  that  profit  not : 

And  lest  I  too  a  like  fault  should  commit    .    .    . 
CEdipus. — Now,  by  the  Gods,  unless  thy  reason  fails. 

Refuse  us  not,  who  all  implore  thy  help. 
Teiresias. — Ah !    Reason  fails  you  all,  but  ne'er  will  I 

Say  what  thou  bidd'st,  lest  I  thy  troubles  show. 
CEdipus. — What  mean'st  thou,  then  ?    Thou  know'st  and  wilt 
not  tell. 

But  wilt  betray  us,  and  the  state  destroy  ? 
Teiresias. — I  will  not  pain  myself  nor  thee.    Why,  then, 

All  vainly  question?    Thou  shalt  never  know. 
CEdipus. — Oh,  basest  of  the  base!  (for  thou  would'st  stir 

A  heart  of  stone;)  and  wilt  thou  never  tell, 

But  still  abide  relentless  and  unmoved? 
Teiresias. — My  mood  thou  blamest,  but  thou  dost  not  know 

What  dwelleth  with  thee  while  thou  chidest  me. 
CEdipus. — And  who  would  not  feel  anger,  hearing  words 

Like  those  with  which  thou  dost  the  state  insult  ? 
Teiresias. — Well!  come  they  will,  though  I  should  hold  my 

peace. 
CEdipus. — If  come  they  must,  thy  duty  is  to  speak. 
Teiresias. — I  speak  no  more.    So,  if  thou  wilt,  rage  on, 

With  every  mood  of  wrath  most  desperate. 
CEdipus. — Yes ;  I  will  not  refrain,  so  fierce  my  wrath, 

From  speaking  all  my  thought.    I  think  that  thou 

Did'st  plot  the  deed,  and  do  it,  though  the  blow 

Thy  hands,  it  may  be,  dealt  not.    Had'st  thou  seen, 

I  would  have  said  it  was  thy  deed  alone. 
Teiresias. — And  has  it  come  to  this  ?    I  charge  thee,  hold 

To  thy  late  edict,  and  from  this  day  forth 

Speak  not  to  me,  nor  yet  to  these,  for  thou, 

Thou  are  the  accursed  plague-spot  of  the  land. 


54 


SOPHOCLES 


CEdipus. — Art  thou  so  shameless  as  to  vent  such  words. 
And  dost  thou  think  to  'scape  scot-free  for  this  ? 

Teiresias. — I  have  escaped.    The  strength  of  truth  is  mine. 

CEdipus. — Who  prompted  thee?    This  comes  not   from  thine 
art. 

Teiresias. — 'Twas  thou.    Thou  mad'st  me  speak  against  my 
will. 

CEdipus. — What  say'st  thou  ?    Speak  again,  that  I  may  know. 

Teiresias. — Didst  thou  not  know  before  ?    Or  dost  thou  try  me  ? 

CEdipus. — I  could  not  say  I  knew  it.    Speak  again. 

Teiresias. — I  say  thou  art  the  murderer  whom  thou  seek'st. 

CEdipus. — Thou  shalt  not  twice  revile,  and  go  unharmed. 

Teiresias. — And  shall  I  tell  thee  more  to  stir  thy  rage  ? 

CEdipus. — Say  what  thou  pleasest,    'Twill  be  said  in  vain. 

Teiresias. — I  say  that  thou,  in  vilest  intercourse 

With  those  that  dearest  are,  dost  blindly  live, 
Nor  see'st  the  depth  of  evil  thou  hast  reached. 

CEdipus. — And  dost  thou  think  to  say  these  things  unscathed  ? 

Teiresias. — I  doubt  it  not,  if  truth  retain  her  might. 

CEdipus. — That  might  is  not  for  thee ;  thou  can'st  not  claim  it, 
Blind  in  thine  ears,  thy  reason,  and  thine  eyes. 

Teiresias. — How  wretched  thou,  thus  hurling  this  reproach  1 
Such,  all  too  soon,  will  all  men  hurl  at  thee. 

CEdipus. — In  one  long  night  thou  liv'st,  and  can'st  not  hurt. 
Or  me,  or  any  man  who  sees  the  light. 

Teiresias. — 'Tis  not  thy  doom  to  owe  thy  fall  to  me ; 
Apollo  is  enough,  be  His  the  task. 

OEdipus. — Are  these  devices  Creon's,  or  tnine  own  ? 

Teiresias. — It  is  not  Creon  harms  thee,  but  thyself. 

CEdipus. — O  wealth,  and  sovereignty,  and  noblest  skill 
Surpassing  skill  in  life  so  envy-fraught. 
How  great  the  ill-will  dogging  all  your  steps ! 
If  for  the  sake  of  kingship,  which  the  state 
Hath  given,  unasked  for,  freely  in  mine  hands, 
Creon  the  faithful,  found  my  friend  throughout. 
Now  seeks  with  masked  attack  to  drive  me  forth. 
And  hires  this  wizard,  plotter  of  foul  schemes, 
A  vagrant  mountebank,  whose  sight  is  clear 
For  pay  alone,  but  in  his  art  stone-blind. 
Is  it  not  so  ?    When  wast  thou  true  seer  found  ? 


CEDIPUS  REX  55 

Why,  when  the  monster  with  her  song  was  here, 

Spak'st  thou  no  word  our  countrymen  to  help? 

And  yet  the  riddle  lay  above  the  ken 

Of  common  men,  and  called  for  prophet's  skill. 

And  this  thou  show'dst  thou  had'st  not,  nor  by  bird, 

Nor  any  God  made  known ;  but  then  I  came, 

I,  CEdipus,  who  nothing  know,  and  slew  her, 

With  mine  own  counsel  winning,  all  untaught 

By  flight  of  birds.    And  now  thou  would'st  expel  me, 

And  think'st  to  take  thy  stand  by  Creon's  throne. 

But,  as  I  think,  both  thou  and  he  that  plans 

With  thee,  will  hunt  this  mischief  to  your  cost ; 

And  but  that  I  must  think  of  thee  as  old. 

Thou  had'st  learnt  wisdom,  suflfering  what  thou  plann'st. 

Chorus. — Far  as  we  dare  to  guess,  we  think  his  words, 
And  thine,  O  CEdipus,  in  wrath  are  said. 
Not  such  as  these  we  need,  but  this  to  see. 
How  best  to  solve  the  God's  great  oracles. 

Teiresias. — King  though  thou  be,  I  claim  an  equal  right 
To  make  reply.    That  power,  at  least,  is  mine : 
For  I  am  not  thy  slave,  but  Loxias' ;  ^* 
Nor  shall  I  stand  on  Creon's  patronage : 
And  this  I  say,  since  thou  my  blindness  mock'st. 
That  thou,  though  seeing,  failest  to  perceive 
Thy  evil  plight,  nor  where  thou  liv'st,  nor  yet 
With  whom  thou  dwellest.    Know'st  thou  even  this. 
Whence  thou  art  sprung?    All  ignorant  thou  sinn'st 
Against  thine  own,  beneath,  and  on  the  earth : 
And  soon  a  two-edged  Curse  from  sire  and  mother, 
With  foot  of  fear,  shall  chase  thee  forth  from  us. 
Now  seeing  all  things  clear,  then  all  things  dark. 
And  will  not  then  each  creek  repeat  thy  wail, 
Each  valley  of  Kithseron  echoing  ring. 
When  thou  discern'st  the  marriage,  fatal  port. 
To  which  thy  prosp'rous  voyage  brought  thy  bark  ? 
And  other  ills,  in  countless  multitude. 
Thou  see'st  not  yet,  shall  make  thy  lot  as  one 
With  sire's  and  child's.    Vent  forth  thy  wrath  then  loud, 

>♦  The  special  name  of  Apollo  as  the  "  prophetes  "  of  Zeus,  and  therefore  the 
cuardian  of  all  seers  and  propnets. 


56  SOPHOCLES 

On  Creon,  and  my  speech.    There  lives  not  man 
Whose  life  shall  waste  more  wretchedly  than  thine. 

CEdipus. — Can  this  be  longer  borne !    Away  with  thee ! 
A  curse  light  on  thee !    Wilt  thou  not  depart  ? 
Wilt  thou  not  turn  and  from  this  house  go  back  ? 

Teiresias. — I  had  not  come,  had'st  thou  not  called  me  here. 

CEdipus. — I  knew  not  thou  would'st  speak  so  foolishly ; 
Else  I  had  hardly  fetched  thee  to  my  house. 

Teiresias. — We  then,  so  seems  it  thee,  are  fools  from  birth, 
But,  unto  those  who  gave  thee  birth,  seem  wise. 

[Turns  to  go. 

CEdipus  [starting  forward]. — What?     Stay  thy  foot. 
What  mortal  gave  me  birth  ? 

Teiresias. — This  day  shall  give  thy  birth,  and  work  thy  doom. 

CEdipus. — What  riddles  dark  and  dim  thou  lov'st  to  speak. 

Teiresias. — Yes.    But  thy  skill  excels  in  solving  such. 

CEdipus. — Scoff  thou  at  that  in  which  thou'lt  find  me  strong. 

Teiresias. — And  yet  this  same  success  has  worked  thy  fall. 

CEdipus. — I  little  care,  if  I  have  saved  the  state. 

Teiresias. — Well,  then,  I  go.    Do  thou,  boy,  lead  me  on ! 

CEdipus. — Let  him  lead  on.    Most  hateful  art  thou  near ; 
Thou  can'st  not  pain  me  more  when  thou  art  gone. 

Teiresias. — I  go  then,  having  said  the  things  I  came 
To  say.    No  fear  of  thee  compels  me.    Thine 
Is  not  the  power  to  hurt  me.    And  I  say. 
This  man  whom  thou  dost  seek  with  hue-and-cry. 
As  murderer  of  Laios,  he  is  here. 
In  show  an  alien  sojourner,  but  in  truth 
A  home-born  Theban.     No  delight  to  him 
Will  that  discovery  bring.     Blind,  having  seen. 
Poor,  having  rolled  in  wealth — he,  with  a  staff 
Feeling  his  way,  to  a  strange  land  shall  go ! 
And  to  his  sons  shall  he  be  seen  at  once 
Father  and  brother,  and  of  her  who  bore  him 
Husband  and  son,  sharing  his  father's  bed, 
His  father's  murd'rer.    Go  thou  then  within, 
And  brood  o'er  this,  and,  if  thou  find'st  me  fail. 
Say  that  my  skill  in  prophecy  is  gone. 

[Exeunt  CEdipus  and  Teiresias. 


CEDIPUS  REX  57 

Strophe  I. 

Chorus. — Who  was  it  that  the  rock  oracular 

Of  Delphi  spake  of,  working 
With  bloody  hands  of  all  dread  deeds  most  dread  ? 

Time  is  it  now  for  him, 
Swifter  than  fastest  steed  to  bend  his  flight ; 

For,  in  full  armor  clad, 

Upon  him  darts,  with  Are 
And  lightning  flash,  the  radiant  Son  of  Zeus, 

And  with  Him  come  in  train 

The  dread  and  awful  Powers, 
The  Destinies  that  fail  not  of  their  aim. 

Antistrophe  I. 

For  from  Parnassos'  heights,  enwreathed  with  snow. 

Gleaming,  but  now  there  shone 
The  oracle  that  bade  us,  one  and  all, 

Track  the  unnamed,  unknown; 
For,  lo !  he  wanders  through  the  forest  wild. 

In  caves  and  over  rocks, 

As  strays  the  mountain  bull, 
In  dreary  loneliness  with  dreary  tread, 

Seeking  in  vain  to  shun 

Dread  words  from  central  shrine ;  ^^ 
Yet  they  around  him  hover,  full  of  life. 

Strophe  II. 

Fearfully,  fearfully  the  augur  moves  me. 

Nor  answering,  aye  nor  no ! 
And  what  to  say  I  know  not,  but  float  on, 

And  hover  still  in  hopes. 
And  fail  to  scan  things  present  or  to  come. 

For  not  of  old,  nor  now, 
Learnt  I  what  cause  of  strife  at  variance  set 

The  old  Labdakid  race 
With  him,  the  child  and  heir  of  Polybos, 

"  Delphi,   thought   of  by  the  Greeks,  as  Jerusalem  was  in  the  Middle  AgeSi 
AS  the  centre  oi  the  whole  earth. 


58  SOPHOCLES 

Nor  can  I  test  the  tale, 
And  take  my  stand  against  the  well-earned  fame 

Of  CEdipus,  my  lord, 
As  champion  of  the  old  Labdakid  race, 

For  deaths  obscure  and  dark! 

Antistrophe  II. 

For  Zeus  and  King  Apollo,  they  are  wise. 

And  know  the  hearts  of  men: 
But  that  a  seer  excelleth  me  in  skill, 

This  is  no  judgment  true; 
And  one  man  may  another's  wisdom  pass, 

By  wisdom  higher  still. 
I,  for  my  part,  before  the  word  is  plain. 

Will  ne'er  assent  in  blame. 
Full  clear,  the  winged  Maiden-monster  came 

Against  him,  and  he  proved, 
By  sharpest  test,  that  he  was  wise  indeed. 

By  all  the  land  beloved, 
And  never,  from  my  heart  at  least,  shall  come 

Words  that  accuse  of  guilt. 

Enter  Creon. 

Creon. — I  come,  ye  citizens,  as  having  learnt 
Our  sovereign,  CEdipus,  accuses  me 
Of  dreadful  things  I  cannot  bear  to  hear. 
For  if,  in  these  calamities  of  ours. 
He  thinks  he  suffers  wrongly  at  my  hands. 
In  word  or  deed,  aught  tending  to  his  hurt, 
I  set  no  value  on  a  life  prolonged. 
While  this  reproach  hangs  on  me ;  for  its  harm 
Affects  not  slightly,  but  is  direst  shame, 
If  through  the  town  my  name  as  villain  rings, 
By  thee  and  by  my  friends  a  villain  called. 

Chorus. — But  this  reproach,  it  may  be,  came  from  wrath 
All  hasty,  rather  than  from  calm,  clear  mind. 

Creon. — And  who  informed  him  that  the  seer,  seduced 
By  my  devices,  spoke  his  lying  words  ? 

Chorus. — The  words  were  said,  but  with  what  mind  I  know  not. 


CEDIPUS  REX  59 

Creon. — And  was  it  with  calm  eyes  and  judgment  calm, 

This  charge  was  brought  against  my  name  and  fame  ? 

Chorus. — I  cannot  say.    To  what  our  rulers  do 
I  close  my  eyes.    But  here  he  comes  himself. 

Enter  CEdipus. 

OEdipus. — Ho,  there !  is't  thou  ?    And  does  thy  boldness  soar 
So  shameless  as  to  come  beneath  my  roof, 
When  thou,  'tis  clear,  dost  plot  against  my  Hfe, 
And  seek'st  to  rob  me  of  my  sovereignty  ? 
Is  it,  by  all  the  Gods,  that  thou  hast  seen 
Or  cowardice  or  folly  in  my  soul, 
That  thou  hast  laid  thy  plans  ?    Or  thoughtest  thou 
That  I  should  neither  see  thy  sinuous  wiles, 
Nor,  knowing,  ward  them  off  ?    This  scheme  of  thine, 
Is  it  not  wild,  backed  nor  by  force  nor  friends. 
To  seek  the  power  which  force  and  wealth  must  grasp  ? 

Creon. — Dost  know  what  thou  wilt  do  ?    For  words  of  thine 
Hear  like  words  back,  and  as  thou  hearest,  judge. 

CEdipus. — Cunning  of  speech  art  thou.    But  I  am  slow 
Of  thee  to  learn,  whom  I  have  found  my  foe. 

Creon. — Of  this,  then,  first,  hear  what  I  have  to  speak.    .    ,    , 

CEdipus. — But  this,  then,  say  not,  that  thou  art  not  vile. 

Creon. — If  that  thou  thinkest  self-willed  pride  avails. 
Apart  from  judgment,  know  thou  art  not  wise. 

CEdipus. — If  that  thou  think'st,  thy  kinsman  injuring. 
To  do  it  unchastised,  thou  art  not  wise. 

Creon. — In  this,  I  grant,  thou  speakest  right ;  but  tell. 
What  form  of  injury  hast  thou  to  endure? 

CEdipus. — Didst  thou,  or  didst  thou  not,  thy  counsel  give, 
Someone  to  send  to  fetch  this  reverend  seer? 

Creon. — And  even  now  by  that  advice  I  hold ! 

CEdipus. — How     long     a     time     has     passed     since      Laios 
chanced     .     .     .  [Pauses. 

Creon. — Chanced  to  do  what  ?    I  understand  not  yet. 

CEdipus. — Since  he  was  smitten  with  the  deadly  blow  ? 

Creon. — The  years  would  measure  out  a  long,  long  tale. 

CEdipus. — And  was  this  seer  then  practising  his  art? 

Creon. — Full  wise  as  now,  and  equal  in  repute. 

CEdipus. — Did  he  at  that  time  say  a  word  of  me  ? 


6o  SOPHOCLES 

Creon. — Not  one,  while  I,  at  any  rate,  was  by. 

CEdipus. — What  ?    Held  ye  not  your  quest  upon  the  dead  ? 

Creon. — Of  course  we  held  it,  but  we  nothing  heard. 

OEdipus. — How  was  it  he,  this  wise  one,  spoke  not  then  ? 

Creon. — I  know  not,  and,  not  knowing,  hold  my  peace. 

CEdipus. — Thy  deed  thou  know'st,  and  with  clear  mind  could'st 
speak ! 

Creon. — What  is't?    I'll  not  deny  it,  if  I  know. 

CEdipus. — Were  he  not  leagued  with  thee  he  ne'er  had  talked 
Of  felon  deed  by  me  on  Laios  done. 

Creon. — If  he  says  this,  thou  know'st  it.    I  of  thee 
Desire  to  learn,  as  thou  hast  learnt  of  me. 

QEdipus. — Learn  then ;  on  me  no  guilt  of  blood  shall  rest. 

Creon. — Well,  then — my  sister?  dost  thou  own  her  wife? 

CEdipus. — I  cannot  meet  this  question  with  denial. 

Creon. — Rul'st  thou  this  land  in  equal  right  with  her? 

CEdipus. — Her  every  wish  she  doth  from  me  receive. 

Creon. — And  am  not  I  co-equal  with  you  twain  ? 

CEdipus. — Yes;  and  just  here  thou  show'st  thyself  false  friend. 

Creon. — Not  so,  if  thou  would 'st  reason  with  thyself, 
As  I  will  reason.    First  reflect  on  this ; 
Supposest  thou  that  one  would  rather  choose 
To  reign  with  fears  than  sleep  untroubled  sleep, 
His  power  being  equal  ?    I,  for  one,  prize  less 
The  name  of  king  than  deeds  of  kingly  power ; 
And  so  would  all  who  learn  in  wisdom's  school. 
Now  without  fear  I  have  what  I  desire, 
At  thy  hand  given.    Did  I  rule,  myself, 
I  might  do  much  unwillingly.    Why  then 
Should  sovereignty  exert  a  softer  charm, 
Than  power  and  might  uncheckered  by  a  care? 
I  am  not  yet  so  cheated  by  myself. 
As  to  desire  aught  else  but  honest  gain. 
Now  all  men  hail  me,  everyone  salutes, 
Now  they  who  seek  thy  favor  court  my  smiles, 
For  on  this  hinge  does  all  their  fortune  turn. 
Why  then  should  I  leave  this  to  hunt  for  that? 
My  mind,  retaining  reason,  ne'er  could  act 
The  villain's  part.    I  was  not  born  to  love 
Such  thoughts,  nor  join  another  in  the  act ; 


GEDIPUS  REX  ei 

And  as  a  proof  of  this,  go  thou  thyself, 

And  ask  at  Pytho  whether  I  brought  back. 

In  very  deed,  the  oracles  I  heard. 

And  if  thou  find  me  plotting  with  the  seer. 

In  common  concert,  not  by  one  decree. 

But  two,  thine  own  and  mine,  put  me  to  death. 

But  charge  me  not  with  crime  on  shadowy  proof ; 

For  neither  is  it  just,  in  random  thought, 

The  bad  to  count  as  good,  nor  good  as  bad ; 

For  to  thrust  out  a  friend  of  noble  heart. 

Is  like  the  parting  with  the  life  we  love. 

And  this  in  time  thou'lt  know,  for  time  alone 

Makes  manifest  the  righteous.    Of  the  vile 

Thou  may'st  detect  the  vileness  in  a  day. 
Chorus. — To  one  who  fears  to  fall,  his  words  seem  good ; 

O  king,  swift  counsels  are  not  always  safe. 
CEdipus. — But  when  a  man  is  swift  in  wily  schemes, 

Swift  must  I  be  to  baffle  plot  with  plot ; 

And  if  I  stand  and  wait,  he  wins  the  day. 

And  all  my  state  to  rack  and  ruin  goes. 
Creon. — What  seek'st  thou,  then  ?  to  drive  me  from  the  land? 
CEdipus. — Not  so.    I  seek  thy  death,  not  banishment. 
Creon. — When  thou  show'st  first  what  grudge  I  bear  to  thee. 
CEdipus. — ^And  say'st  thou  this  defying,  yielding  not  ? 
Creon. — I  see  your  mind  is  gone. 
CEdipus. —  My  right  I  mind. 

Creon. — Mine  has  an  equal  claim. 
CEdipus. —  Nay,  thou  art  vile. 

Creon. — And  if  thy  mind  is  darkened    .    .    .? 
CEdipus. —  Still  obey! 

Creon. — Nay,  not  a  tyrant  king. 
CEdipus. —  O  country  mine! 

Creon. — That  country,  too,  is  mine,  not  thine  alone. 
Chorus. — Cease,  O  my  princes!    In  good  time  I   see  Jocasta 
coming  hither  from  the  house ; 

And  it  were  well  with  her  to  hush  this  brawl. 

Enter  I o casta. 

Jocasta. — Why,  O  ye  wretched  ones,  this  strife  of  tongues 
Raise  ye  in  your  unwisdom,  nor  are  shamed. 


62  SOPHOCLES 

Our  country  suffering,  private  griefs  to  stir? 

Come  thou  within ;  and  thou,  O  Creon,  go ; 

Bring  not  a  trifling  sore  to  mischief  great ! 
Creon. — My  sister!    CEdipus  thy  husband  claims 

The  right  to  do  me  one  of  two  great  wrongs, 

To  thrust  me  from  my  fatherland,  or  slay  me. 
CEdipus. — 'Tis  even  so,  for  I  have  found  him,  wife, 

Against  my  life  his  evil  wiles  devising. 
Creon. — May  I  ne'er  prosper,  but  accursed  die, 

If  I  have  done  the  things  he  says  I  did ! 
JocASTA. — Oh,  by  the  Gods,  believe  him,  CEdipus ! 

Respect  his  oath,  which  calls  the  Gods  to  hear ; 

And  reverence  me,  and  these  who  stand  by  thee. 
Chorus. — Hearken,  my  king !  be  calmer,  I  implore ! 
CEdipus. — What  wilt  thou  that  I  yield  ? 
Chorus. —  Oh,  have  respect 

To  one  not  weak  before,  who  now  is  strong 

In  this  his  oath. 
CEdipus. —  And  know'st  thou  what  thou  ask'st? 

Chorus. — I  know  right  well. 

CEdipus. —  Say  on,  then,  what  thou  wilt. 

Chorus. — Hurl  not  to  shame,  on  grounds  of  mere  mistrust, 

The  friend  on  whom  no  taint  of  evil  hangs. 
CEdipus. — Know  then  that,  seeking  this,  thou  seek'st,  in  truth, 

To  work  my  death,  or  else  my  banishment. 
Chorus. — Nay,  by  the  Sun-God,  Helios,  chief  of  Cjods  I  " 

May  I,  top,  die,  of  God  and  man  accursed, 

If  I  wish  aught  like  this !    But  on  my  soul, 

Our  wasting  land  dwells  heavily ;   ills  on  ills 

Still  coming,  new  upon  the  heels  of  old. 
CEdipus. — Let  him  depart  then,  even  though  I  die, 

Or  from  my  country  be  thrust  forth  in  shame : 

Thy  face,  not  his,  I  view  with  pitying  eye ; 

For  him,  where'er  he  be,  is  nought  but  hate. 
Creon. — Thou'rt  loth  to  yield,  'twould  seem,  and  wilt  be  vexed 

When  this  thy  wrath  is  over :  moods  like  thine 

Are  fitly  to  themselves  most  hard  to  bear. 
CEdipus. — Wilt  thou  not  go,  and  leave  me? 

^^  Helios,    specially    invoked    as    the  giver  of  light,  discerning  and  making 
manifest  all  bidden  things. 


CEDIPUS   REX  63 

Creon. —  I  will  go, 

By  thee  misjudged,  but  known  as  just  by  these.    [Exit.] 
Chorus. — Why,  lady,  art  thou  slow  to  lead  him  in  ? 
JocASTA. — I  fain  would  learn  how  this  sad  chance  arose. 
Chorus. — Blind  haste  of  speech  there  was,  and  wrong  will 

sting. 
Jocasta. — From  both  of  them  ? 
Chorus. —  Yea,  both. 

Jocasta. —  And  what  said  each? 

Chorus. — Enough  for  me,  enough,  our  land  laid  low, 

It  seems,  to  leave  the  quarrel  where  it  stopped. 
CEdipus. — See'st  thou,  thou  good  in  counsel,  what  thou  dost, 

Slighting  my  cause,  and  toning  down  thy  zeal  ? 
Chorus. — My  chief,  not  once  alone  I  spoke. 

Unwise,  unapt  for  wisdom  should  I  seem. 

Were  I  to  turn  from  thee  aside. 

Who,  when  my  country  rocked  in  storm, 

Didst  right  her  course.    Ah !  if  thou  can'st, 

Steer  her  well  onward  now. 
Jocasta. — Tell  me,  my  king,  what  cause  of  fell  debate 

Has  bred  this  discord,  and  provoked  thy  soul. 
CEdipus. — Thee  will  I  tell,  for  thee  I  honor  more 

Than  these.    'Twas  Creon  and  his  plots  against  me, 
Jocasta. — Say  then,  if  clearly  thou  can'st  tell  the  strife. 
CEdipus. — He  says  that  I  am  Laios'  murderer. 
Jocasta. — Of  his  own  knowledge,  or  by  someone  taught? 
CEdipus. — A  scoundrel  seer  suborning.    For  himself. 

He  takes  good  care  to  free  his  lips  from  blame. 
Jocasta. — Leave  now  thyself,  and  all  thy  thoughts  of  this, 

And  list  to  me,  and  learn  how  little  skill 

In  art  prophetic  mortal  man  may  claim ; 

And  of  this  truth  I'll  give  thee  one  short  proof. 

There  came  to  Laios  once  an  oracle, 

(I  say  not  that  it  came  from  Phcebos'  self. 

But  from  his  servants,)  that  his  fate  was  fixed 

By  his  son's  hand  to  fall — his  own  and  mine ; 

And  him,  so  rumor  runs,  a  robber  band 

Of  aliens  slay,  where  meet  the  three  great  roads. 

Nor  did  three  days  succeed  the  infant's  birth. 

Before,  by  other  hands,  he  cast  him  forth, 

Classics.     Vol.  30 — D 


64  SOPHOCLES 

Piercing  his  ankles,  on  a  lonely  hill. 

Here,  then,  Apollo  failed  to  make  the  boy 

His  father's  murderer ;  nor  by  his  son's  hands. 

Doom  that  he  dreaded,  did  our  Laios  die ; 

Such  things  divining  oracles  proclaimed ; 

Therefore  regard  them  not.    Whate'er  the  God 

Desires  to  search  He  will  himself  declare. 
CEdipus   [trembling]. — Ah,  as  but  now  I  heard  thee  speak, 
my  queen. 

Strange  whirl  of  soul,  and  rush  of  thoughts  o'ercome  me. 
JocASTA. — What  vexing  care  bespeaks  this  sudden  change  ? 
CEdipus. — I  thought  I  heard  thee  say  that  Laios  fell, 

Smitten  to  death,  where  meet  the  three  great  roads. 
JocASTA. — So  was  it  said,  and  still  the  rumors  hold. 
CEj)ipus. — Where  was  the  spot  in  which  this  matter  passed  ? 
JocASTA. — They  call  the  country  Phocis,  and  the  roads  " 

From  Delphi  and  from  Daulia  there  converge. 
CEdipus. — And  what  the  interval  of  time  since  then? 
JocASTA. — But  just  before  thou  earnest  to  possess 

And  rule  this  land  the  tidings  reached  our  city. 
CEdipus. — Great  Zeus !  what  fate  hast  thou  decreed  for  me  ? 
JocASTA. — What  thought  is  this,  my  CEdipus,  of  thine? 
CEdipus. — Ask  me  not  yet,  but  Laios    .    .    .    tell  of  him. 

His  build,  his  features,  and  his  years  of  life. 
JocASTA. — Tall  was  he,  and  the  white  hairs  snowed  his  head, 

And  in  his  form  not  much  unlike  to  thee. 
CEdipus. — Woe,  woe  is  me !  so  seems  it  I  have  plunged 

All  blindly  into  curses  terrible. 
JocASTA. — What  sayest  thou  ?    I  fear  to  look  at  thee. 
CEdipus. — I  tremble  lest  the  seer  has  seen  indeed : 

But  thou  can'st  clear  it,  answering  yet  once  more, 
JocASTA. — And  I  too  fear,  yet  what  thou  ask'st  I'll  tell. 
CEdipus. — Went  he  in  humble  guise,  or  with  a  troop 

Of  spearmen,  as  becomes  a  man  that  rules? 
JocASTA. — Five  were  they  altogether,  and  of  them 

One  was  a  herald,  and  one  chariot  bore  him. 
CEdipus. — Woe !  woe !  'tis  all  too  clear.    And  who  was  he 

That  told  these  tidings  to  thee,  O  my  queen  ? 

"The    meeting    place    of    the    three       Turkish    village,    the    Stavrodrom    o! 
roads   is   now   the   site    of  a   decayed       Mparpanas. 


CEDIPUS  REX  6$ 

JocASTA. — A  servant  who  alone  escaf)ed  with  life. 
CEdipus. — And  does  he  chance  to  dwell  among  us  now  ? 
JocASTA. — Not  so;   for  from  the  time  when  he  returned, 

And  found  thee  bearing  sway,  and  Laios  dead. 

He,  at  my  hand,  a  suppliant,  implored 

This  boon,  to  send  him  to  the  distant  fields 

To  feed  his  flocks,  as  far  as  possible 

From  this  our  city.    And  I  sent  him  forth ; 

For  though  a  slave,  he  might  have  claimed  yet  more. 
CEdipus. — Ah !  could  we  fetch  him  quickly  back  again ! 
JocASTA. — That  may  well  be.    But  why  dost  thou  wish  this  ? 
CEdipus. — I  fear,  O  queen,  that  words  best  left  unsaid 

Have  passed  these  lips,  and  therefore  wish  to  see  him. 
JocASTA. — Well,  he  shall  come.    But  some  small  claim  have  I, 

0  king,  to  learn  what  touches  thee  with  woe. 
CEdipus. — Thou  shalt  not  fail  to  learn  it,  now  that  I 

Have  gone  so  far  in  bodings.    Whom  should  I 
More  than  to  thee  tell  all  the  passing  chance? 

1  had  a  father,  Polybos  of  Corinth, 
And  Merope  of  Doris  was  my  mother, 
And  I  was  held  in  honor  by  the  rest 
Who  dwelt  there,  till  this  accident  befel, 
Worthy  of  wonder,  of  the  heat  unworthy 

It  roused  within  me.    Thus  it  chanced :  A  man 
At  supper,  in  his  cups,  with  wine  o'ertaken, 
Reviles  me  as  a  spurious  changeling  boy ; 
And  I,  sore  vexed,  hardly  for  that  day 
Restrained  myself.    And  when  the  morrow  came 
I  went  and  charged  my  father  and  my  mother 
With  what  I  thus  had  heard.    They  heaped  reproach 
On  him  who  stirred  the  matter,  and  I  soothed 
My  soul  with  what  they  told  me ;  yet  it  teased 
Still  vexing  more  and  more ;  and  so  I  went, 
Unknown  to  them,  to  Pytho,  and  the  God 
Sent  me  forth  shamed,  unanswered  in  my  quest ; 
And  other  things  He  spake,  dread,  dire,  and  dark, 
That  I  should  join  in  wedlock  with  my  mother, 
Beget  a  brood  that  men  should  loathe  to  look  at. 
Be  murderer  of  the  father  that  begot  me. 
[And,  hearing  this,  I  straight  from  Corinth  fled, 


66  SOPHOCLES 

The  stars  thenceforth  the  land-marks  of  my  way, 

And  fled  where  never  more  mine  eyes  might  see 

The  shame  of  those  dire  oracles  fulfilled ; 

And  as  I  went  I  reached  the  spot  where  he, 

This  king,  thou  tell'st  me,  met  the  fatal  blow. 

And  now,  O  lady,  I  will  tell  the  truth. 

Wending  my  steps  that  way  where  three  roads  meet, 

There  met  me  first  a  herald,  and  a  man 

Like  him  thou  told'st  of,  riding  on  his  car, 

Drawn  by  young  colts.    With  rough  and  hasty  force 

They  drove  me  from  the  road — the  driver  first, 

And  that  old  man  himself ;  and  then  in  rage 

I  strike  the  driver,  who  had  turned  me  back. 

And  when  the  old  man  sees  it,  watching  me 

As  by  the  chariot-side  I  passed,  he  struck 

My  forehead  with  a  double-pointed  goad. 

But  we  were  more  than  quits,  for  in  a  trice 

With  this  right  hand  I  struck  him  with  my  staff. 

And  he  rolls  backward  from  his  chariot's  seat 

And  then  I  slay  them  all.    And  if  it  chance 

That  Laios  and  this  stranger  are  akin, 

What  man  more  wretched  than  this  man  who  speaks? 

What  man  more  harassed  by  the  vexing  Gods  ? 

He  whom  none  now,  or  alien,  or  of  Thebes, 

May  welcome  to  their  house,  or  speak  to  him, 

But  thrust  him  forth  an  exile.    And  'twas  I, 

None  other,  who  against  myself  proclaimed 

These  curses.    And  the  bed  of  him  that  died 

I  with  my  hands,  by  which  he  fell,  defile. 

Am  1  not  born  to  evil,  all  unclean  ? 

If  I  must  flee,  yet  still  in  flight  my  doom 

Is  never  more  to  see  the  friends  I  love. 

Nor  tread  my  country's  soil ;  or  else  to  bear 

The  guilt  of  incest,  and  my  father  slay. 

Yea,  Polybos,  who  begat  and  brought  me  up. 

Would  not  a  man  say  right  who  said  that  here 

Some  cruel  God  was  pressing  hard  on  me  ? 

Not  that,  not  that,  at  least,  thou  Presence,  pure 

And  awful,  of  the  Gods ;  may  I  ne'er  look 

On  such  a  day  as  that,  but  far  away 


CEDIPUS  REX  €7 

Depart  unseen  from  all  the  haunts  of  men, 
Before  such  great  pollution  comes  on  me. 

Chorus. — We,  too,  O  king,  are  grieved,  yet  hope  thou  on. 
Till  thou  hast  asked  the  man  who  then  was  by. 

(Edipus. — And  this  indeed  is  all  the  hope  I  have, 
Waiting  until  that  shepherd-slave  appear. 

JocASTA. — And  when  he  comes,  what  ground  for  hope  is  there  ? 

CEdipus. — I'll  tell  thee.    Should  he  now  repeat  the  tale 

Thou  told'st  me,  I,  at  least,  stand  free  from  guilt. 

JocASTA, — What  special  word  was  that  thou  heard'st  from  me? 

CEdipus. — Thou  said'st  he  told  that  robbers  slew  his  lord, 
And  should  he  give  their  number  as  the  same 
Now  as  before,  it  was  not  I  who  slew  him. 
For  one  man  could  not  be  the  same  as  many. 
But  if  he  speak  of  one  man,  all  alone. 
Then,  all  too  plain,  the  deed  cleaves  fast  to  me. 

JocASTA. — But  know,  the  thing  was  said,  and  clearly  said. 
And  now  he  cannot  from  his  word  draw  back. 
Not  I  alone,  but  the  whole  city,  heard  it ; 
And  should  he  now  retract  his  former  tale, 
Not  then,  my  husband,  will  he  rightly  show 
The  death  of  Laios,  who,  as  Loxias  told, 
By  my  son's  hands  should  die ;  and  yet,  poor  boy. 
He  killed  him  not,  but  perished  long  ago. 
So  I,  at  least,  for  all  their  oracles. 
Will  never  more  cast  glance  or  here,  or  there. 

CEdipus. — Thou  reasonest  well.    Yet  send  a  messenger 
To  fetch  that  peasant.    Be  not  slack  in  this. 

JocASTA. — I  will  make  haste.    But  let  us  now  go  in ; 

I  would  do  nothing  that  displeaseth  thee.     [Exeunt. 

Strophe  I. 

Chorus. — O  that  'twere  mine  to  keep 
An  awful  purity, 
In  words  and  deeds  whose  laws  on  high  are  set 
Through  heaven's  clear  aether  spread, 
Whose  birth  Olympos  boasts. 
Their  one,  their  only  sire. 
Whom  man's  frail  flesh  begat  not, 
Nor  in  forget  fulness 


68  SOPHOCLES 

Shall  lull  to  sleep  of  death ; 
In  them  our  God  is  great, 
In  them  He  grows  not  old  for  evermore. 

Antistrophe  I. 

But  pride  begets  the  mood 

Of  wanton,  tyrant  power; 
Pride  filled  with  many  thoughts,  yet  filled  in  vain, 

Untimely,  ill-advised, 

Scaling  the  topmost  height. 

Falls  to  the  abyss  of  woe. 

Where  step  that  profiteth 

It  seeks  in  vain  to  take. 

I  ask  our  God  to  stay 

The  labors  never  more 

That  work  our  country's  good ; 
I  will  not  cease  to  call  on  God  for  aid. 

Strophe  II. 

But  if  there  be  who  walketh  haughtily, 

In  action  or  in  speech. 
Whom  Righteousness  herself  has  ceased  to  awe. 
Who  shrines  of  Gods  reveres  not,. 

An  evil  fate  be  his, 
(Fit  meed  for  all  his  evil  boastfulness ;) 
Unless  he  gain  his  gains  more  righteously, 
And  draweth  back  from  deeds  of  sacrilege. 
Nor  lays  rash  hand  upon  the  holy  things. 

By  man  inviolable : 

Who  now,  if  such  things  be, 

Will  boast  that  he  can  guard 

His  soul  from  darts  of  wrath  ? 
If  deeds  like  these  are  held  in  high  repute. 

What  profit  is't  for  me 

To  raise  my  choral  strain? 

Antistrophe  II. 

No  longer  will  I  go  in  pilgrim's  guise. 
To  yon  all  holy  place. 


CEDIPUS  REX  69 

Earth's  central  shrine,  nor  Abac's  temple  old, 

Nor  to  Olympia's  fane,^® 
Unless  these  things  shall  stand 
In  sight  all  men,  tokens  clear  from  God. 
But,  O  thou  sovereign  Ruler !  if  that  name, 

0  Zeus,  belongs  to  thee,  who  reign'st  o'er  all, 
Let  not  this  trespass  hide  itself  from  thee, 

Or  thine  undying  sway ; 
For  now  they  set  at  nought 
The  worn-out  oracles, 
That  Laios  heard  of  old, 
And  king  Apollo's  wonted  worship  flags. 
And  all  to  wreck  is  gone 
The  homage  due  to  God. 

Enter  Jocasta,  folloived  by  Attendants. 

JocASTA. — Princes  of  this  our  land,  across  my  soul 

There  comes  the  thought  to  go  from  shrine  to  shrine 

Of  all  the  Gods,  these  garlands  in  my  hand, 

And  waving  incense ;  for  our  CEdipus 

Vexes  his  soul  too  wildly  with  all  woes. 

And  speaks  not  as  a  man  should  speak  who  scans 

New  issues  by  experience  of  the  old, 

But  hangs  on  every  breath  that  tells  of  fear. 

And  since  I  find  that  my  advice  avails  not, 

To  thee,  Lyceian  King,  Apollo,  first 

1  come — ffer  thou  art  nearest — suppliant 
With  these  devotions,  trusting  thou  wilt  work 
Some  way  of  healing  for  us,  free  from  guilt ; 
For  now  we  shudder,  all  of  us,  seeing  him, 
The  good  ship's  pilot,  stricken  down  with  fear. 

Enter  Messenger. 

Messenger. — May  I  inquire  of  you,  O  strangers,  where 
To  find  the  house  of  CEdipus  the  king, 
And,  above  all,  where  he  is,  if  ye  know  ? 

18  The    central    shrine    is,    as    in    480,  older  than  that  of  Delphi.    In  Olympia, 

Delphi,   where  a  white  oval    stone  was  the    priests    of    Zeus    divined    from    the 

supposed  to  be  the  very  centre,  or  om-  clearness  or  dimness  of  the  fire  upon 

phalos  of  the  earth.    At  Abse,  in  Phocis,  the  altar. 
was  an  oracle  of  Apollo,  believed  to  be 


70  SOIfflOCLES 

Chorus. — This  is  the  house,  and  he,  good  sir,  within, 
And  here  stands  she,  the  mother  of  his  children. 

Messenger. — Good  fortune  be  with  her  and  all  her  kin. 
Being,  as  she  is,  his  true  and  honored  wife. 

JocASTA. — Like  fortune  be  with  thee,  my  friend.    Thy  speech, 
So  kind,  deserves  no  less.    But  tell  me  why 
Thou  comest,  what  thou  hast  to  ask  or  tell. 

Messenger. — Good  news  to  thee,  and  to  thy  husband,  lady. 

JocASTA. — What  is  it,  then  ?  and  who  has  sent  thee  here  ? 

Messenger. — I  come  from  Corinth,  and  the  news  I'll  tell 

May  give  thee  joy.    How  else?    Yet  thou  may'st  grieve. 

JocASTA. — What  is  the  news  that  has  this  twofold  power? 

Messenger. — The  citizens  that  on  the  Isthmus  dwell 
Will  make  him  sovereign.     So  the  rumor  ran. 

JocASTA. — What !    Does  old  Polybos  hold  his  own  no  more? 

Messenger. — Nay,  nay.    Death  holds  him  in  his  sepulchre. 

JocASTA. — What  say'st  thou?    Polybos,  thy  king,  is  dead? 

Messenger. — If  I  speak  false,  I  bid  you  take  my  life. 

JocASTA. — Go,  maiden,  at  thy  topmost  speed,  and  tell 
Thy  master  this.    Now,  oracles  of  Gods, 
Where  are  ye  now  ?    Long  since  my  CEdipus 
Fled,  fearing  lest  his  hand  should  slay  the  man; 
And  now  he  dies  by  fate,  and  not  by  him. 

Enter  CEdipus. 

(Edipus. — Mine  own  Jocasta,  why,  O  dearest  one, 

Why  hast  thou  sent  to  fetch  me  from  the  house  ? 
Jocasta. — List  this  man's  tale,  and,  when  thou  hearest,  see 

The  plight  of  those  the  God's  dread  oracles. 
CEdipus. — Who  then  is  this,  and  what  has  he  to  tell  ? 
Jocasta. — He  comes  from  Corinth,  and  he  brings  thee  word 

That  Polybos  thy  father  lives  no  more. 
OEdibus. — What  say'st  thou,  friend  ?    Tell  me  thy  tale  thyself. 
Messenger. — If  I  must  needs  report  the  story  clear. 

Know  well  that  he  has  gone  the  way  of  death. 
CEdipus. — Was  it  by  plot,  or  chance  of  some  disease  ? 
Messenger. — An  old  man's  frame  a  little  stroke  lays  low. 
CEdipus. — By  some  disease,  'twould  seem,  he  met  his  death? 
Messenger. — Yes,  that,  and  partly  worn  by  lingering  age. 
CEdipus. — Ha !  ha !    Why  now,  my  queen,  should  we  regard 


CEDIPuS  REX  71 

The  Pythian  hearth  oracular,  or  birds 
In  mid-air  crying?  ^°    By  their  auguries, 
I  was  to  slay  my  father.    And  he  dies, 
And  the  grave  hides  him ;  and  I  find  myself 
Handling  no  sword ;    .    .    .    unless  for  love  of  me 
He  pined  away,  and  so  I  caused  his  death. 
So  Polybos  is  gone,  and  bears  with  him. 
In  Hades  'whelmed,  those  worthless  oracles. 

JocASTA. — Did  I  not  tell  thee  this  long  time  ago? 

CEdipus. — Thou  didst,  but  I  was  led  away  by  fears. 

JocASTA. — Dismiss  them,  then,  forever  from  thy  thoughts ! 

CEdipus. — And  yet  that  "  incest;  "   must  I  not  fear  that? 

JocASTA. — Why  should  we  fear,  when  chance  rules  everything, 
And  foresight  of  the  future  there  is  none ; 
'Tis  best  to  live  at  random,  as  one  can. 
But  thou,  fear  not  that  marriage  with  thy  mother: 
Many  ere  now  have  dreamt  of  things  like  this, 
But  who  cares  least  about  them  bears  life  best. 

CEdipus. — Right  well  thou  speakest  all  things,  save  that  she 
Still  lives  that  bore  me,  and  I  can  but  fear, 
Seeing  that  she  lives,  although  thou  speakest  well. 

JocASTA. — And  yet  great  light  comes  from  thy  father's  grave. 

CEdipus. — Great  light  I  own ;  yet  while  she  lives  I  fear. 

Messenger. — Who  is  this  woman  about  whom  ye  fear  ? 

CEdipus. — 'Tis  Merope,  old  sir,  who  lived  with  Polybos. 

Messenger. — And  what  leads  you  to  think  of  her  with  fear? 

CEdipus. — A  fearful  oracle,  my  friend,  from  God. 

Messenger. — Can'st  tell  it  ?  or  must  others  ask  in  vain  ? 

CEdipus. — Most  readily :   for  Loxias  said  of  old 

That  I  should  with  my  mother  wed,  and  then 

With  mine  own  hands  should  spill  my  father's  blood. 

And  therefore  Corinth  long  ago  I  left, 

And  journeyed  far,  right  prosperously  I  own ; — 

And  yet  'tis  sweet  to  see  one's  parents'  face. 

Messenger. — And  did  this  fear  thy  steps  to  exile  lead  ? 

CEdipus. — I  did  not  wish  to  take  my  father's  life. 

Messenger. — Why,  then,  O  king,  did  I,  with  good- will  come, 
Not  free  thee  from  this  fear  that  haunts  thy  soul  ? 

"The  "  Pythian  hearth,"  with  special        Delphic  oracle;  "birds,"  to  that  of  tho 
reference  to  the  apparent  failure  of  the       auguries  of  Teiresias. 


72  SOPHOCLES 

CEdipus. — ^Yes,  and  for  this  thou  shalt  have  worthy  thanks. 
Messenger. — For  this,  indeed,  I  chiefly  came  to  thee ; 

That  I  on  thy  return  might  prosper  well. 
CEdipus. — And  yet  I  will  not  with  a  parent  meet. 
Messenger. — 'Tis  clear,  my  son,  thou  know'st  not  what  thou 

dost. 
CEdipus, — What  is't  ?    By  all  the  Gods,  old  man,  speak  out. 
Messenger. — If  'tis  for  them  thou  fearest  to  return     .    .    . 
CEdipus. — I  fear  lest  Phoebos  prove  himself  too  true. 
Messenger. — Is  it  lest  thou  should'st  stain  thy  soul  through 

them? 
CEdipus. — This  self-same  fear,  old  man,  forever  haunts  me. 
Messenger. — And  know'st  thou  not  there  is  no  cause  for  fear  ? 
CEdipus. — Is  there  no  cause  if  I  was  born  their  son  ? 
Messenger. — None  is  there.    Polybos  was  nought  to  thee. 
CEdipus. — What  say'st  thou  ?    Did  not  Polybos  beget  me  ? 
Messenger. — No  more  than  he  thou  speak'st  to;  just  as  much. 
CEdipus. — How  could  a  father's  claim  become  as  nought  ? 
Messenger. — Well,  neither  he  begat  thee  nor  -did  I. 
CEdipus. — Why  then  did  he  acknowledge  me  as  his  ? 
Messenger. — He  at  my  hands  received  thee  as  a  gift. 
CEdipus. — And  could  he  love  another's  child  so  much? 
Messenger. — Yes;    for  his  former  childlessness  wrought  on 

him. 
CEdipus. — And  gav'st  thou  me  as  foundling  or  as  bought  ? 
Messenger. — I  found  thee  in  Kitnseron's  shrub-grown  hollow. 
CEdipus. — And  for  what  cause  didst  travel  thitherwards? 
Messenger. — I  had  the  charge  to  tend  the  mountain  flocks. 
CEdipus. — Wast  thou  a  shepherd,  then,  and  seeking  hire  ? 
Messenger. — E'en  so,  my  son,  and  so  I  saved  thee  then. 
CEdipus. — What  evil  plight  then  didst  thou  find  me  in? 
Messenger. — The  sinews  of  thy  feet  would  tell  that  tale. 
CEdipus. — Ah,  me!   why  speak'st  thou  of  that  ancient  wrong? 
Messenger. — I  freed  thee  when  thy  insteps  both  were  pierced. 
CEdipus. — A  foul  disgrace  I  had  in  swaddling  clothes. 
Messenger. — Thus  from  this  chance  there  came  the  name  thou 

bearest. 
CEdipus  [starting]. — Who  gave  the  name,  my  father  or  my 

mother  ? 
Messenger. — I  know  not.    He  who  gave  thee  better  knows. 


(EDIPUS  REX  73 

(Edipus. — Didst  thou  then  take  me  from  another's  hand, 

Not  finding  me  thyself? 
Messenger. —  Not  I,  indeed ; 

Another  shepherd  made  a  gift  of  thee. 
OEdipus. — Who  was  he?    Know'st  thou  how  to  point  him  out? 
Messenger. — They  called  him  one  of  those  that  Laios  owned. 
CEdipus. — Mean'st  thou  the  former  sovereign  of  this  land  ? 
Messenger. — E'en  so.    He  fed  the  flocks  of  him  thou  nam'st. 
CEdipus, — And  is  he  living  still  that  I  might  see  him  ? 
Messenger. — You,  his  own  countrymen,  should  know  that  best. 
CEdipus. — Is  there  of  you  who  stand  and  listen  here 

One  who  has  known  the  shepherd  that  he  tells  of. 

Or  seeing  him  upon  the  hills  or  here  ? 

If  so,  declare  it ;  'tis  full  time  to  know. 
Chorus. — I  think  that  this  is  he  whom  from  the  fields 

But  now  thou  soughtest.    But  Jocasta  here 

Could  tell  thee  this  with  surer  word  than  I. 
QEdipus. — Think 'st  thou,  my  queen,  the  man  whom  late  we 
sent  for 

Is  one  with  him  of  whom  this  stranger  speaks? 
Jocasta  [zmth  forced  calmness]. — Whom  did  he  speak  of? 
Care  not  thou  for  it. 

Nor  even  wish  to  keep  his  words  in  mind. 
CEdipus. — I  cannot  fail,  once  getting  on  the  scent, 

To  track  at  last  the  secret  of  my  birth. 
Jocasta. — Ah,  by  the  Gods,  if  that  thou  valuest  life 

Inquire  no  more.     My  misery  is  enough. 
(Edipus. — Take  heart ;  though  I  should  prove  thrice  base-bom 
slave, 

Bom  of  thrice  base-bom  mother,  thou  art  still 

Free  from  all  stain. 
Jocasta. —  Yet,  I  implore  thee,  pause  I 

Yield  to  my  counsels,  do  not  do  this  deed. 
CEdipus. — I  may  not  yield,  nor  fail  to  search  it  out. 
Jocasta. — And  yet  best  counsels  give  I,  for  thy  good. 
CEdipus. — What  thou  call'st  best  has  long  been  grief  to  me. 
Jocasta. — May'st  thou  ne'er  know,  ill-starred  one,  who  thou 

art! 
OEdipus, — Will  someone  bring  that  shepherd  to  me  here? 

Leave  her  to  glory  in  her  high  descent. 


74 


SOPHOCLES 


JocASTA. — Woe !  woe !  ill-fated  one !  my  last  word  this, 

This  only,  and  no  more  for  evermore.        [Rushes  out. 

Chorus. — Why  has  thy  queen,  O  CEdipus,  gone  forth 
In  her  wild  sorrow  rushing?    Much  I  fear 
Lest  from  such  silence  evil  deeds  burst  out. 

(Edipus. — Burst  out  what  will ;  I  seek  to  know  my  birth, 
Low  though  it  be,  and  she  perhaps  is  shamed 
(For,  like  a  woman,  she  is  proud  of  heart) 
At  thoughts  of  my  low  birth ;  but  I,  who  count 
Myself  the  child  of  Fortune,  fear  no  shame; 
My  mother  she,  and  she  has  prospered  me. 
And  so  the  months  that  span  my  life  have  made  me 
Both  low  and  high ;  but  whatsoe'er  I  be, 
Such  as  I  am  I  am,  and  needs  must  on 
To  fathom  all  the  secret  of  my  birth. 

Strophe. 

,  Chorus. — If  the  seer's  gift  be  mine, 

Or  skill  in  counsel  wise. 
Thou,  O  Kithseron,  by  Olympos  high, 

When  next  our  full  moon  comes, 

Shalt  fail  not  to  resound 
With  cry  that  greets  thee,  fellow-citizen. 

Mother  and  nurse  of  CEdipus 
And  we  will  on  thee  weave  our  choral  dance. 
As  bringing  to  our  princes  glad  good  news. 
Hail,  hail !  O  Phoebos,  grant  that  what  we  do 

May  meet  thy  favoring  smile. 

Antistrophe. 

Who  was  it  bore  thee,  child,^** 

Of  Nymphs  whose  years  are  long, 
Or  drawing  near  the  mighty  Father,  Pan, 

Who  wanders  o'er  the  hills, 

Or  Loxias'  paramour. 
Who  loves  the  high  lawns  of  the  pasturing  flocks  ? 

*>The   Chorus,   thinking   only   of   the  Hermes,  worshipped  on  Kyllene  in  _Ar- 

wonder   of   CEdipus's   birth,   plays   with  cadia;  or  Bacchos,  roaming  on  the  high- 

the  conjecture  that  he  is  the  offspring  est  peaks  of  Parnassos.    The  Heliconian 

of  the  Gods,   of  Pan,   the  God  of  the  nymphs  are,  of  course,  the  Muses, 
hills,  or  Apollo,  the  prophet -God,  or 


CEDIPUS  REX  75 

Or  was  it  He  who  rules 
Kyllene's  height ;  or  did  the  Bacchic  god, 
Whose  dweUing  is  upon  the  mountain  peaks. 
Receive  thee,  gift  of  HeUconian  nymphs, 
With  whom  He  loves  to  sport? 

CEdipus. — If  I  must  needs  conjecture,  who  as  yet 

Ne'er  met  the  man,  I  think  I  see  the  shepherd, 
Whom  this  long  while  we  sought  for.    In  his  age 
He  this  man  matches.    And  I  see  besides, 
My  servants  bring  him.    Thou  perchance  can'st  speak 
From  former  knowledge  yet  more  certainly. 

Chorus. — I  know  him,  king,  be  sure ;  for  this  man  stood. 
If  any,  known  as  Laios'  herdsman  true. 

Enter  Shepherd. 

CEdipus. — Thee  first  I  ask,  Corinthian  stranger,  say, 
Is  this  the  man  ? 

Messenger. —  The  very  man  thou  seek'st. 

CEdipus. — Ho  there !  old  man.    Come  hither,  look  on  me. 
And  tell  me  all.    Did  Laios  own  thee  once? 

Shepherd. — His  slave  I  was,  not  bought,  but  reared  at  home. 

CEdipus. — What  was  thy  work,  or  what  thy  mode  of  life  ? 

Shepherd. — Near  all  my  life  I  followed  with  the  flock. 

CEdipus. — And  in  what  regions  didst  thou  chiefly  dwell? 

Shepherd. — Now  'twas  Kithaeron,  now  on  neighboring  fields. 

CEdipus. — Know'st  thou  this  man?    Didst  ever  see  him  there? 

Shepherd. — What  did  he  do?    Of  what  man  speakest  thou? 

CEdipus. — This  man  now  present.    Did  ye  ever  meet? 

Shepherd.-— I  cannot  say  oflF-hand  from  memory. 

Messenger. — No  wonder  that,  my  lord.    But  I'll  remind  him 
Right  well  of  things  forgotten.    Well  I  know 
He  needs  must  know  when  on  Kithaeron's  fields, 
He  with  a  double  flock,  and  I  with  one, 
I  was  his  neighbor  during  three  half  years. 
From  springtide  till  Arcturos  rose ;  and  I 
In  winter  to  mine  own  fold  drove  my  flocks. 
And  he  to  those  of  Laios.    [To  Shepherd.]    Answer  me, 
Speak  I,  or  speak  I  not,  the  thing  that  was  ? 

Shepherd. — Thou  speak'st  the  truth,  although  long  years  have 
passed. 


76  SOPHOCLES 

Messenger. — Come,  then,  say  on.    Dost  know  thou  gav'st  me 
once 

A  boy,  that  I  might  rear  him  as  my  child  ? 
Shepherd. — What  means  this  ?    Wherefore  askest  thou  of  that  ? 
Messenger. — Here  stands  he,  fellow !  that  same  tiny  boy. 
Shepherd. — A  curse  befall  thee !    Wilt  not  hold  thy  tongue? 
(Edipus. — Rebuke  him  not,  old  man ;  thy  words  need  more 

The  language  of  rebuker  than  do  his. 
Shepherd. — Say,  good  my  lord,  what  fault  do  I  commit? 
CEdipus. — This,  that  thou  tell'st  not  of  the  child  he  asks  for. 
Shepherd. — Yes,  for  he  nothing  knows,  and  wastes  his  pains. 
CEdipus. — For  favor  thou  speak'st  not,  but  shalt  for  pain.    .    .    . 

[Strikes  him. 
Shepherd. — By  all  the  Gods,  hurt  not  an  old  man  weak. 
CEdipus. — Will  no  one  bind  his  hands  behind  his  back  ? 
Shepherd. — Oh  wretched  me !    And  what  then  wilt  thou  learn? 
CEdipus. — Gav'st  thou  this  man  the  boy  of  whom  he  asks? 
Shepherd. — I  gave  him.    Would  that  I  that  day  had  died. 
CEdipus. — Soon  thou  wilt  come  to  that  if  thou  speak'st  wrong. 
Shepherd. — Nay,  much  more  shall  I  perish  if  I  speak. 
CEdipus. — This  fellow,  as  it  seems,  would  tire  us  out. 
Shepherd. — Not  so.    I  said  long  since  I  gave  it  him. 
CEdipus. — Whence  came  it?    Was  the  child  thine  own  or  not? 
Shepherd. — Mine  own  'twas  not,  from  someone  else  I  had  it. 
CEdipus. — Which  of  our  people,  or  from  out  what  home? 
Shepherd. — Oh,  by  the  Gods,  my  master,  ask  no  more ! 
CEdipus. — Thou  diest  if  I  question  this  again. 
Shepherd. — Someone  it  was  of  Laios'  household  born. 
CEdipus. — Was  it  a  slave,  or  someone  kin  to  him  ? 
Shepherd. — Ah  me,  I  stand  upon  the  very  brink 

Where  most  I  dread  to  speak. 
CEdipus. —  And  I  to  hear : 

And  yet  I  needs  must  hear  it,  come  what  may. 
Shepherd. — The  boy  was  said  to  be  his  son ;  but  she. 

Thy  queen  within,  could  tell  the  whole  truth  best. 
CEdipus. — What !  was  it  she  who  gave  it  ? 
Shepherd. —  Yea,  O  king  I 

CEdipus. — And  to  what  end  ? 

Shepherd. —  To  make  away  with  it. 

CEdipus. — And  dared  a  mother   .    .   .  ? 


CEDIPUS  REX  77 

Shepherd. —  Auguries  dark  she  feared. 

Gdipus. — What  were  they? 

Shepherd. —  E'en  that  he  his  sire  should  kill. 

CEdipus. — Why  then  didst  thou  to  this  old  man  resign  him? 

Shepherd. — I  pitied  him,  O  master,  and  I  thought 
That  he  would  bear  him  to  another  land, 
Whence  he  himself  had  come.    But  him  he  saved 
For  direst  evil.    For  if  thou  be  he 
Whom  this  man  speaks  of,  thou  art  evil-starred. 

CEdipus. — Woe !  woe !  woe !  woe !  all  cometh  clear  at  last. 
O  light,  may  this  my  last  glance  be  on  thee. 
Who  now  am  seen  owing  my  birth  to  those 
To  whom  I  ought  not,  and  with  whom  I  ought  not 
In  wedlock  living,  whom  I  ought  not  slaying.     [Exit. 

Strophe    I. 

Chorus. — Ah,  race  of  mortal  men, 

How  as  a  thing  of  nought 
I  count  ye,  though  ye  live ; 
For  who  is  there  of  men 
That  more  of  blessing  knows, 
Than  just  a  little  while 
To  seem  to  prosper  well. 
And,  having  seemed,  to  fall? 
With  thee  as  pattern  giving, 
Thy  destiny,  e'en  thine. 
Ill-fated  CEdipus, 
I  count  nought  human  blest. 

Antistrophe    I. 

For  he,  with  wondrous  skill, 
Taking  his  aim,  did  hit 
Success,  in  all  things  blest ; 
And  did,  O  Zeus !  destroy 
The  Virgin  with  claws  bent. 
And  sayings  wild  and  dark  ; 
And  against  many  deaths 
A  tower  and  strong  defence 
Did  for  my  country  rise : 


78  SOPHOCLES 

And  so  thou  king  art  named. 
With  highest  glory  crowned, 
Ruling  in  mighty  Thebes. 

Strophe  II. 

And  now,  who  lives  than  thou  more  miserable? 
,Who  equals  thee  in  wild  woes  manifold, 

In  shifting  turns  of  life? 

Ah,  noble  one,  our  CEdipus ! 

For  whom  the  same  wide  harbor 

Sufficed  for  sire  and  son. 

In  marriage  rites  to  enter: 

Ah  how,  ah,  wretched  one. 

How  could  thy  father's  bed 

Receive  thee,  and  so  long, 

Even  till  now,  be  dumb  ? 

Antistrophe  II. 

Time,  who  sees  all  things,  he  hath  found  thee  out. 
Against  thy  will,  and  long  ago  condemned 
The  wedlock  none  may  wed. 

Begetter  and  begotten. 

Ah,  child  of  Laios !  would 

I  ne'er  had  seen  thy  face ! 

I  mourn  with  wailing  lips. 

Mourn  sore  exceedingly. 

'Tis  simplest  truth  to  say. 

By  thee  from  death  I  rose. 

By  thee  in  death  I  sleep. 

Enter  Second  Messenger,  i 

Second  Messenger. — Ye  chieftains,  honored  most  in  this  our 
land, 
What  deeds  ye  now  will  hear  of,  what  will  see, 
How  great  a  wailing  will  ye  raise,  if  still 
Ye  truly  love  the  house  of  Labdacos ! 
For  sure  I  think  that  neither  Istros'  stream 
Nor  Phasis'  floods  could  purify  this  house,^^ 

*i  Istros  as  the  great  river  of  Europe,  Phasis  of  Asia. 


CEDIPUS  REX  79 

Such  horrors  does  it  hold. .  But  soon  'twill  show 
JEvils  self-chosen,  not  without  free  choice: 
These  self-sought  sorrows  ever  pain  men  most. 

Chorus. — The  ills  we  knew  before  lacked  nothing  meet 

For  plaint  and  moaning.    Now,  what  add'st  thou  more  ? 

Second  Messenger. — Quickest  for  me  to  speak,  and  thee  to 
learn; 
Our  sacred  queen  Jocasta — she  is  dead. 

Chorus. — Ah,  crushed  with  many  sorrows !    How  and  why? 

Second  Messenger. — Herself  she  slew.    The  worst  of  all  that 
passed 
I  must  omit,  for  none  were  there  to  see. 
Yet,  far  as  memory  suffers  me  to  speak, 
That  sorrow-stricken  woman's  end  I'll  tell ; 
For  when  to  passion  yielding,  on  she  passed 
Within  the  porch,  straight  to  the  couch  she  rushed. 
Her  bridal  bed,  with  both  hands  tore  her  hair, 
And  as  she  entered,  dashing  through  the  doors, 
Calls  on  her  Laios,  dead  long  years  ago, 
Remembering  that  embrace  of  long  ago. 
Which  brought  him  death,  and  left  to  her  who  bore. 
With  his  own  son  a  hateful  motherhood. 
And  o'er  her  bed  she  wailed,  where  she  had  borne 
Spouse  to  her  spouse,  and  children  to  her  child ; 
And  how  she  perished  after  this  I  know  not ; 
For  CEdipus  struck  in  with  woful  cry. 
And  we  no  longer  looked  upon  her  fate. 
But  gazed  on  him  as  to  and  fro  he  rushed. 
For  so  he  raves,  and  asks  us  for  a  sword. 
Wherewith  to  smite  the  wife  that  wife  was  none, 
The  womb  polluted  with  accursed  births. 
Himself,  his  children — so,  as  thus  he  raves, 
Some  spirit  shows  her  to  him  (none  of  us 
Who  stood  hard  by  had  done  so)  :   with  a  shout 
Most  terrible,  as  someone  led  him  on, 
Through  the  two  gates  he  leapt,  and  from  the  wards 
He  slid  the  hollow  bolt,  and  rushes  in ; 
And  there  we  saw  his  wife  had  hung  herself. 
By  twisted  cords  suspended.    When  her  form 
He  saw,  poor  wretch !  with  one  wild,  fearful  cry. 


So  SOPHOCLES 

The  twisted  rope  he  loosens,  and  she  fell, 
Ill-starred  one,  on  the  ground.    Then  came  a  sight 
Most  fearful.    Tearing  from  her  robe  the  clasps, 
All  chased  with  gold,  with  which  she  decked  herself, 
He  with  them  struck  the  pupils  of  his  eyes. 
With  words  like  these — "  Because  they  had  not  seen 
What  ills  he  suffered  and  what  ills  he  did, 
They  in  the  dark  should  look,  in  time  to  come, 
On  those  whom  they  ought  never  to  have  seen. 
Nor  know  the  dear  ones  whom  he  fain  had  known." 
With  such  like  wails,  not  once  or  twice  alone. 
Raising  his  eyes,  he  smote  them,  and  the  balls. 
All  bleeding,  stained  his  cheek,  nor  poured  they  forth 
Gore  drops  slow  trickling,  but  the  purple  shower 
Fell  fast  and  full,  a  pelting  storm  of  blood. 
Such  were  the  ills  that  sprang  from  both  of  them. 
Not  on  one  only,  wife  and  husband  both. 
His  ancient  fortune,  which  he  held  of  old. 
Was  truly  fortune ;  but  for  this  day's  doom 
Wailing  and  woe,  and  death  and  shame,  all  forms 
That  man  can  name  of  evil,  none  have  failed. 

Chorus. — What  rest  from  suffering  hath  the  poor  wretch  now  ? 

Second  Messenger. — He  calls  to  us  to  ope  the  bolts,  and  show 
To  all  in  Thebes  his  father's  murderer. 
His  mother's    .    .    .    Foul  and  fearful  were  the  words 
He  spoke ;  I  dare  not  speak  them.    Then  he  said 
That  he  would  cast  himself  adrift,  nor  stay 
At  home  accursed,  as  himself  had  cursed. 
Some  stay  he  surely  needs,  or  guiding  hand, 
For  greater  is  the  ill  than  he  can  bear, 
And  this  he  soon  will  show  thee,  for  the  bolts 
Of  the  two  gates  are  opening,  and  thou'lt  see 
A  sight  to  touch  e'en  hatred's  self  with  pity. 

[The  doors  of  the  Palace  are  thrown  open,  and  (Edipus  is  seen 

within.^ 

Chorus. — Oh,  fearful  sight  for  men  to  look  upon ! 
Most  fearful  of  all  woes 
I  hitherto  have  known !    What  madness  strange 
Has  come  on  thee,  thou  wretched  one  ? 


CEDIPUS  REX  81 

What  Power  with  one  fell  swoop. 
Ills  heaping  upon  ills, 
Than  greatest  greater  yet, 
Has  marked  thee  for  its  prey? 
Woe !  woe !  thou  doomed  one,  wishing  much  to  ask. 
And  much  to  learn,  and  much  to  gaze  into, 
I  cannot  look  on  thee. 
So  horrible  the  sight ! 
(Edipus, — Ah,  woe !  ah,  woe !  ah,  woe ! 
Woe  for  my  misery! 
Where  am  I  wandering  in  my  utter  woe? 

Where  floats  my  voice  in  air? 
Dread  Power,  with  crushing  might 
Thou  leaped'st  on  my  head. 
Chorus. — Yea,  with  dread  doom  nor  sight  nor  speech  may  bear. 
CEdipus. — O  cloud  of  darkness,  causing  one  to  shrink, 
That  onward  sweeps  with  dread  ineffable, 
Resistless,  borne  along  by  evil  blast, 

Woe,  woe,  and  woe  again ! 
How  through  me  darts  the  throb  these  clasps  have  caused. 
And  memory  of  my  ills. 
Chorus. — And  who  can  wonder  that  in  such  dire  woes 

Thou  mournest  doubly,  bearing  twofold  ills  ? 
CEdipus. — Ah,  friend. 

Thou  only  keepest  by  me,  faithful  found. 
Nor  dost  the  blind  one  slight. 

Woe,  woe, 
For  thou  escap'st  me  not ;  I  clearly  know, 
Though  all  is  dark,  at  least  that  voice  of  thine. 
Chorus. — O  man  of  fearful  deeds,  how  could'st  thou  bear 

Thine  eyes  to  outrage  ?    What  power  stirred  thee  to  it  ? 
CEdipus. — Apollo,  oh,  my  friends,  the  god,  Apollo, 
Who  worketh  out  all  these,  my  bitter  woes ; 
Yet  no  man's  hand  but  mine  has  smitten  them. 

What  need  for  me  to  see. 
When  nothing's  left  that's  sweet  to  look  upon  ? 
Chorus. — Too  truly  dost  thou  speak  the  thing  that  is. 
CEdipus. — Yea,  what  remains  to  see. 
Or  what  to  love,  or  hear, 
With  any  touch  of  joy? 


82  SOPHOCLES 

Lead  me  away,  my  friends,  with  utmost  speed. 
'Lead  me  away,  the  foul  polluted  one, 

Of  all  men  most  accursed. 

Most  hateful  to  the  gods. 
Chorus. — Ah,  wretched  one,  alike  in  soul  and  doom, 
I  fain  could  wish  that  I  had  never  known  thee. 
(Edipus. — 111  fate  be  his  who  from  the  fetters  freed 

The  child  upon  the  hills. 
And  rescued  me  from  death. 

And  saved  me — thankless  boon! 

Ah !   had  I  died  but  then. 
Nor  to  my  friends  nor  me  had  been  such  woe. 
Chorus. — I,  too,  could  fain  wish  that. 
CEdipus. — Yes ;  then  I  had  not  been 

My  father's  murderer: 
Nor  had  men  pointed  to  me  as  the  man 

Wedded  with  her  who  bore  him. 
But  now  all  godless,  born  of  impious  stock, 
In  incest  joined  with  her  who  gave  me  birth ;— • 
Yea,  if  there  be  an  evil  worse  than  all, 
It  falls  on  CEdipus ! 
Chorus. — I  may  not  say  that  thou  art  well-advised, 

For  better  wert  thou  dead  than  living  blind. 
CEdipus. — Persuade  me  not,  nor  counsel  give  to  show 
That  what  I  did  was  not  the  best  to  do. 
I  know  not  with  what  eyes,  in  Hades  dark, 
To  look  on  mine  own  father  or  my  mother. 
When  I  against  them  both,  alas !  have  done 
Deeds  for  which  strangling  were  too  light  a  doom. 
My  children's  face,  forsooth,  was  sweet  to  see. 
Their  birth  being  what  it  was ;  nay,  nay,  not  so 
To  these  mine  eyes,  nor  yet  this,  nor  tower. 
Nor  sacred  shrines  of  gods  whence  I,  who  stood 
Most  honored  one  in  Thebes,  myself  have  banished. 
Commanding  all  to  thrust  the  godless  forth. 
Him  whom  the  gods  do  show  accursed,  the  stock 
Of  Laios  old.    And  could  I  dare  to  look. 
Such  dire  pollution  fixing  on  myself, 
And  meet  these  face  to  face?    Not  so,  not  so. 
Yea,  if  I  could  but  stop  the  stream  of  sound. 


CEDIPUS  REX  83 

And  dam  mine  ears  against  it,  I  would  do  it, 
Sealing  my  carcase  vile,  that  I  might  live 
Both  blind,  and  hearing  nothing.    Sweet  'twould  be 
To  keep  my  soul  beyond  the  reach  of  ills 
Why,  O  Kithseron,  didst  thou  shelter  me. 
Nor  kill  me  out  of  hand?    I  had  not  shown. 
In  that  case,  all  men  whence  I  drew  my  birth. 
O  Polybos,  and  Corinth,  and  the  home 
Of  old  called  mine,  how  strange  a  growth  ye  reared, 
All  fair  outside,  all  rotten  at  the  core ; 
For  vile  I  stand,  descended  from  the  vile. 
Ye  threefold  roads  and  thickets  half  concealed. 
The  copse,  the  narrow  pass  where  three  ways  meet, 
Which  at  my  hands  did  drink  my  father's  blood, 
Remember  ye,  what  deeds  I  did  in  you. 
What,  hither  come,  I  did  ? — O  marriage  rites 
That  gave  me  birth,  and,  having  borne  me,  gave 
To  me  in  turn  an  offspring,  and  ye  showed 
Fathers,  and  sons,  and  brothers,  all  in  one, 
Mothers,  and  wives,  and  daughters,  hateful  names, 
All  foulest  deeds  that  men  have  ever  done. 
But,  since,  where  deeds  are  evil,  speech  is  wrong, 
With  utmost  speed,  by  all  the  gods,  or  slay  me, 
Or  drive  me  forth,  or  hide  me  in  the  sea, 
Where  never  more  your  eyes  may  look  on  me. 
Come,  scorn  ye  not  to  touch  a  wretch  like  me, 
But  hearken ;   fear  ye  not ;  no  soul  save  me 
Can  bear  the  burden  of  my  countless  ills. 
But  ye,  if  ye  have  lost  your  sense  of  shame 
For  mortal  men,  yet  reverence  the  light 
Of  him,  our  king,  the  Sun-God,  source  of  life, 
Nor  sight  so  foul  expose  unveiled  to  view. 
Which  neither  earth,  nor  shower  from  heaven,  nor  light, 
Can  see  and  welcome.     But  with  utmost  speed 
Convey  me  in ;  for  nearest  kin  alone 
Can  meetly  see  and  hear  their  kindred's  ills.^^ 
Chorus. — The  man  for  what  thou  need'st  is  come  in  time, 
Creon,  to  counsel,  and  to  act,  for  now 
He  in  thy  stead  is  left  our  state's  one  guide. 

'3  The  two  sons  of  CEdipus,  Polyneikes  and  Eteocles,  the   Chorus  thinks  of  ai 
too  young  to  reisrn. 


84  SOPHOCLES 

CEdipus. — Ah,  me !  what  language  shall  I  hold  to  him. 
What  trust  at  his  hands  claim?  In  all  the  past 
I  showed  myself  to  him  most  vile  and  base. 

Enter  Creon. 

Creon. — I  have  not  come,  O  CEdipus,  to  scorn, 

Nor  to  reproach  thee  for  thy  former  crimes. 

CEdipus. — Oh,  by  the  gods !  since  thou,  beyond  my  hopes, 
Dost  come  all  noble  unto  me  all  base, 
One  favor  grant.    I  seek  thy  good,  not  mine. 

Creon. — And  what  request  seek'st  thou  so  wistfully? 

CEdipus. — Cast  me  with  all  thy  speed  from  out  this  land. 
Where  nevermore  a  man  may  speak  to  me ! 

Creon. — Be  sure,  I  would  have  done  so,  but  I  wished 
To  learn  what  now  the  god  will  bid  us  do. 

CEdipus. — The  oracle  was  surely  clear  enough 

That  I  the  parricide,  the  pest,  should  die. 

Creon. — So  ran  the  words.    But  in  our  present  need 
'Tis  better  to  learn  surely  what  to  do. 

CEdipus. — And  will  ye  ask  for  one  so  vile  as  I  ? 

Creon, — Yea,  thou,  too,  now  would'st  trust  the  voice  of  God. 

CEdipus. — And  this  I  charge  thee,  yea,  and  supplicate ; 
For  her  within,  provide  what  tomb  thou  wilt. 
For  for  thine  own  most  meetly  thou  wilt  care ; 
But  never  let  this  city  of  my  fathers 
Be  sentenced  to  receive  me  as  its  guest ; 
But  suffer  me  on  yon  lone  hills  to  dwell. 
On  my  Kithseron,  destined  for  my  tomb, 
While  still  I  lived,  by  mother  and  by  sire. 
That  I  may  die  by  those  who  sought  to  kill. 
And  yet  this  much  I  know,  that  no  disease. 
Nor  aught  else  could  have  killed  me ;  ne'er  from  death 
Had  I  been  saved  but  for  some  evil  dread. 
As  for  our  fate,  let  it  go  where  it  will ; 
But  for  my  children,  of  my  boys,  O  Creon, 
Take  thou  no  thought ;  as  men  they  will  not  feel, 
Where'er  they  be,  the  lack  of  means  to  live. 
But  for  my  two  poor  girls,  all  desolate. 
To  whom  my  table  never  brought  a  meal 
Without  my  presence,  but  whate'er  I  touched 


CEDIPUS  REX  85 

They  still  partook  of  with  me ;  care  for  these ; 
Yea,  let  me  touch  them  with  my  hands,  and  weep 
With  them  my  sorrows.    Grant  it,  O  my  prince, 

0  born  of  noble  nature ! 

Could  I  but  touch  them  with  my  hands,  I  feel 
Still  I  should  have  them  mine,  as  when  I  saw. 

Enter  Antigone  and  Ismene. 

What  say  I  ?    What  is  this  ? 
Do  I  not  hear,  ye  gods,  their  dear,  loved  tones. 
Broken  with  sobs,  and  Creon,  pitying  me, 
Hath  sent  the  dearest  of  my  children  to  me  ? 
Is  it  not  so? 

Creon, — It  is  so.    I  am  he  who  gives  thee  this, 

Knowing  the  joy  thou  had'st  in  them  of  old. 

CEdipus. — A  blessing  on  thee !    May  the  Powers  on  high 
Guard  thy  path  better  than  they  guarded  mine ! 
Where  are  ye,  O  my  children  ?    Come,  oh,  come 
To  these  your  brother's  hands,  that  now  have  brought 
Your  father's  once  bright  eyes  to  this  fell  pass, 
Who,  O  my  children,  blind  and  knowing  nought. 
Became  your  father  e'en  by  her  who  bore  me. 

1  weep  for  you  (for  sight  is  mine  no -more,) 
Picturing  in  mind  the  sad  and  dreary  Hfe 
Which  waits  you  at  men's  hands  in  years  to  come ; 
For  to  what  friendly  gatherings  will  ye  go, 

Or  solemn  feasts,  from  whence,  for  all  the  joy 
And  pride,  ye  shall  not  home  return  in  tears? 
And  when  ye  come  to  marriageable  age, 
Wiio  is  there,  O  my  children,  rash  enough 
To  make  his  own  the  shame  that  then  will  fall. 
Reproaches  on  my  parents,  and  on  yours? 
What  evil  fails  us  here?    Your  father  killed 
His  father,  and  was  wed  in  incest  foul 
With  her  who  bore  him,  and  you  twain  begat 
Of  her  who  gave  him  birth.    Such  shame  as  this 
Will  men  lay  on  you,  and  who  then  will  dare 
To  make  you  his  in  marriage?  None,  not  one, 
My  children  !  but  ye  needs  must  waste  away, 
Unwedded,  childless.    Thou,  Menoekeus'  son. 


86  SOPHOCLES 

Since  thou  alone  art  left  a  father  to  them, 
(For  we  their  parents  perish  utterly,) 
Suffer  them  not  to  wander  husbandless, 
Nor  let  thy  kindred  beg  their  daily  bread, 
Nor  make  them  sharers  with  me  in  my  woe ; 
But  look  on  them  with  pity,  seeing  them 
At  their  age,  but  for  thee,  deprived  of  all. 

0  noble  soul,  I  pray  thee,  touch  my  hand 
In  token  of  consent.    And  ye,  my  girls, 
Had  ye  the  minds  to  hearken  I  would  fain 
Give  ye  much  counsel.    As  it  is,  pray  for  me 
To  live  where'er  is  meet ;   and  for  yourselves 
A  brighter  life  than  his  ye  call  your  sire. 

Creon. — Enough  of  tears.    Go  thou  within  the  house. 

CEdipus. — I  needs  must  yield,  however  hard  it  be. 

Creon. — In  their  right  season  all  things  prosper  best. 

CEdipus. — Know'st  thou  my  wish? 

Creon. —  Speak  and  I  then  shall  know. 

QEdipus. — That  thou  should'st  send  me  far  away  from  home. 

Creon. — Thou  askest  what  the  gods  alone  can  give. 

CEdipus. — As  for  the  gods,  above  all  men  they  hate  me. 

Creon. — And  therefore  it  may  chance  thou  gain'st  thy  wish. 

CEdipus. — And  dost  thou  promise? 

Creon. —  When  I  mean  them  not, 

1  am  not  wont  to  utter  idle  words. 
CEdipus. — Lead  me,  then,  hence. 

Creon. —  Go  thou,  but  leave  the  girls. 

CEdipus. — Ah,  take  them  not  from  me ! 

Creon. —  Thou  must  not  think 

To  hold  the  sway  in  all  things  all  thy  life : 
The  sway  thou  had'st  did  not  abide  with  thee. 

Chorus. — Ye  men  of  Thebes,  behold  this  CEdipus, 

Who  knew  the  famous  riddle  and  was  noblest. 

Whose  fortune  who  saw  not  with  envious  glances  ? 

And,  lo !   in  what  a  sea  of  direst  trouble 

He  now  is  plunged.    From  hence  the  lesson  learn  ye, 

To  reckon  no  man  happy  till  ye  witness 

The  closing  day ;  until  he  pass  the  border 

Which  severs  life  from  death,  unscathed  by  sorrow. 


MEDEA 


BY 


EURIPIDES 

[Metrical  Translation  by  Michael  JVodhull] 


Classics.     Vol.   36— E 


DRAMATIS  PERSONS 

Medea. 

Creon. 

Jason. 

Mgevs. 

Messenger. 

The  Two  Sons  of  Jason  and  Medea. 

Attendant  on  the  Children. 

Nurse  of  Medea. 

Chorus  of  Corinthian  Women. 

The  action  of  the  drama  takes  place  before  the  palace  of 
Creon  at  Corinth. 


MEDEA 


SCENE.— BEFORE  THE  PALACE 

Nurse, — Ah !  would  to  heaven  the  Argo  ne'er  had  urged 
Its  rapid  voyage  to  the  Colchian  strand 
'Twixt  the  Cyanean  rocks,  nor  had  the  pine 
Been  fell  in  Pelion's  forests,  nor  the  hands 
Of  those  illustrious  chiefs,  who  that  famed  bark 
Ascended  to  obtain,  the  golden  fleece 
For  royal  Pelias,  plied  the  stubborn  oar ; 
So  to  lolchos'  turrets  had  my  Queen 
Medea  never  sailed,  her  soul  with  love 
For  Jason  smitten,  nor,  as  since  her  arts 
Prevailed  on  Pelias'  daughters  to  destroy 
Their  father,  in  this  realm  of  Corinth  dwelt 
An  exile  with  her  husband  and  her  sons ; 
Thus  to  the  citizens  whose  land  received  her 
Had  she  grown  pleasing,  and  in  all  his  schemes 
Assisted  Jason :  to  the  wedded  pair. 
Hence  bliss  supreme  arises,  when  the  bond 
Of  concord  joins  them :  now  their  souls  are  filled 
With  ruthless  hates,  and  all  affection's  lost : 
For  false  to  his  own  sons,  and  her  I  serve, 
With  a  new  consort  of  imperial  birth 
Sleeps  the  perfidious  Jason,  to  the  daughter 
Of  Creon  wedded,  lord  of  these  domains. 
The  wretched  scorned  Medea  oft  exclaims, 
"  O  by  those  oaths,  by  that  right  hand  thou  gav'st 
The  pledge  of  faith !  "    She  then  invokes  the  gods 
To  witness  what  requital  she  hath  found 
From  Jason.    On  a  couch  she  lies,  no  food 
89 


go  EURIPIDES 

Receiving,  her  whole  frame  subdued  by  grief; 

And  since  she  marked  the  treachery  of  her  lord 

Melts  into  tears  incessant,  from  the  ground 

Her  eyes  she  never  raises,  never  turns 

Her  face  aside,  but  steadfast  as  a  rock, 

Or  as  the  ocean's  rising  billows,  hears 

The  counsels  of  her  friends,  save  when  she  weeps 

In  silent  anguish,  with  her  snowy  neck 

Averted,  for  her  sire,  her  native  land. 

And  home,  which  she  forsaking  hither  came 

With  him  who  scorns  her  now.    She  from  her  woes 

Too  late  hath  learnt  how  enviable  the  lot 

Of  those  who  leave  not  their  paternal  roof. 

She  even  hates  her  children,  nor  with  joy 

Beholds  them:    much  I  dread  lest  she  contrive 

Some  enterprise  unheard  of,  for  her  soul 

Is  vehement,  nor  will  she  tamely  brook 

Injurious  treatment ;  well,  full  well  I  know 

Her  temper,  which  alarms  me,  lest  she  steal 

Into  their  chamber,  where  the  genial  couch 

Is  spread,  and  with  the  sword  their  vitals  pierce, 

Or  to  the  slaughter  of  the  bridegroom  add 

That  of  the  monarch,  and  in  some  mischance. 

Yet  more  severe  than  death,  herself  involve : 

For  dreadful  is  her  wrath,  nor  will  the  object 

Of  her  aversion  gain  an  easy  triumph. 

But  lo,  returning  from  the  race,  her  sons 

Draw  near :  they  think  not  of  their  mother's  woes, 

For  youthful  souls  are  strangers  to  affliction. 

Enter  Attendant,  with  the  Sons  of  Jason  and  Medea. 

Attendant. — O  thou,  who  for  a  length  of  time  hast  dwelt 
Beneath  the  roofs  of  that  illustrious  dame 
I  serve,  why  stand'st  thou  at  these  gates  alone 
Repeating  to  thyself  a  doleful  tale : 
Or  wherefore  by  Medea  from  her  presence 
Art  thou  dismissed  ? 

Nurse. —  Old  man,  O  you  who  tend 

On  Jason's  sons,  to  faithful  servants  aught 


MEDEA  fl 

Of  evil  fortune  that  befalls  their  lords 

Is  a  calamity :  but  such  a  pitch 

Of  grief  am  I  arrived  at,  that  I  felt 

An  impulse  which  constrained  me  to  come  forth 

From  these  abodes,  and  to  the  conscious  earth 

And  heaven  proclaim  the  lost  Medea's  fate. 
Attendant, — Cease  not  the  plaints  of  that  unhappy  dame  ? 
Nurse. — Your  ignorance  I  envy :  for  her  woes 

Are  but  beginning,  nor  have  yet  attained 

Their  mid  career. 
Attendant. —  O  how  devoid  of  reason, 

If  we  with  terms  thus  harsh  may  brand  our  lords, 

Of  ills  more  recent  nothing  yet  she  knows. 
Nurse. — Old  man,  what  mean  you  ?    Scruple  not  to  speak. 
Attendant. — Nought.    What  I  have  already  said  repents  me. 
Nurse. — I  by  that  beard  conjure  you  not  to  hide 

The  secret  from  your  faithful  fellow-servant. 

For  I  the  strictest  silence  will  observe 

If  it  be  needful. 
Attendant. —  Someone  I  o'erheard 

(Appearing  not  to  listen,  as  I  came 

Where  aged  men  sit  near  Pirene's  fount 

And  hurl  their  dice)  say  that  from  Corinth's  land 

Creon,  the  lord  of  these  domains,  will  banish 

The  children  with  their  mother ;  but  I  know  not 

Whether  th'  intelligence  be  true,  and  wish 

It  may  prove  otherwise. 
Nurse, —  Will  Jason  brook 

Such  an  injurious  treatment  of  his  sons. 

Although  he  be  at  variance  with  their  mother? 
Attendant. — By  new  connections  are  all  former  ties 

Dissolved,  and  he  no  longer  is  a  friend 

To  this  neglected  race. 
Nurse. —  We  shall  be  plunged 

In  utter  ruin,  if  to  our  old  woes. 

Yet  unexhausted,  any  fresh  we  add. 
Attendant. — Be  silent,  and  suppress  the  dismal  tale. 

For  'tis  unfit  our  royal  mistress  know. 
Nurse. — Hear,  O  ye  children,  how  your  father's  soul 

Is  turned  against  you :  still,  that  he  may  perish 


99  EURIPIDES 

I  do  not  pray,  because  he  is  my  lord ; 

Yet  treacherous  to  his  friends  hath  he  been  found. 

Attendant. — Who  is  not  treacherous?  Hast  thou  Uved  so  long 
Without  discerning  how  self-love  prevails 
O'er  social  ?    Some  by  glory,  some  by  gain. 
Are  prompted.    Then  what  wonder,  for  the  sake 
Of  a  new  consort,  if  the  father  slight 
These  children  ? 

'Nurse. —  Go,  all  will  be  well,  go  in. 

Keep  them  as  far  as  possible  away, 
Nor  suffer  them  to  come  into  the  presence 
Of  their  afflicted  mother ;  for  her  eyes 
Have  I  just  seen  with  wild  distraction  fired, 
As  if  some  horrid  purpose  against  them 
She  meant  to  execute ;  her  wrath  I  know 
Will  not  be  pacified,  till  on  some  victim 
It  like  a  thunderbolt  from  Heaven  descends ; 
May  she  assail  her  foes  alone,  nor  aim 
The  stroke  at  those  she  ought  to  hold  most  dear. 

Medea  [within], — Ah  me!  how  grievous  are  my  woes!    What 
means 
Can  I  devise  to  end  this  hated  life? 

Nurse. — 'Tis  as  I  said :  strong  agitations  seize 

Your  mother's  heart,  her  choler's  raised.    Dear  children, 

Beneath  these  roofs  hie  instantly,  nor  come 

Into  her  sight,  accost  her  not,  beware 

Of  these  ferocious  manners  and  the  rage 

Which  boils  in  that  ungovernable  spirit. 

Go  with  the  utmost  speed,  for  I  perceive 

Too  clearly  that  her  plaints,  which  in  thick  clouds 

Arise  at  first,  will  kindle  ere  'tis  long 

With  tenfold  violence.    What  deeds  of  horror 

From  that  high-soaring,  that  remorseless  soul. 

May  we  expect,  when  goaded  by  despair ! 

[Exeunt  Attendant  and  Sons. 

Medea  [imthin]. — I  have  endured,  alas!    I  have  endured^- 
Wretch  that  I  am ! — such  agonies  as  call 
For  loudest  plaints.    Ye  execrable  sons 
Of  a  devoted  mother,  perish  ye 
With  your  false  sire,  and  perish  his  whole  house ! 


MEDEA 


93 


Nurse. — Why  should  the  sons — ah,  wretched  me ! — partake 

Their  father's  guilt  ?    Why  hat'st  thou  them  ?    Ah  me  I 

How  greatly,  O  ye  children,  do  I  fear 

Lest  mischief  should  befall  you :  for  the  souls 

Of  kings  are  prone  to  cruelty,  so  seldom 

Subdued,  and  over  others  wont  to  rule, 

That  it  is  difficult  for  such  to  change 

Their  angry  purpose.    Happier  I  esteem 

The  lot  of  those  who  still  are  wont  to  live 

Among  their  equals.    May  I  thus  grow  old. 

If  not  in  splendor,  yet  with  safety  blest ! 

For  first  of  all,  renown  attends  the  name 

Of  mediocrity,  and  to  mankind 

Such  station  is  more  useful :  but  not  long 

Can  the  extremes  of  grandeur  ever  last ; 

And  heavier  are  the  curses  which  it  brings 

When  Fortune  visits  us  in  all  her  wrath. 
Chorus. — The  voice  of  Colchos'  hapless  dame  I  heard — 

A  clamorous  voice,  nor  yet  is  she  appeased. 

Speak,  O  thou  aged  matron,  for  her  cries 

I  from  the  innermost  apartment  heard ; 

Nor  can  I  triumph  in  the  woes  with  which 

This  house  is  visited ;  for  to  my  soul 

Dear  are  its  interests. 
Nurse, —  This  whole  house  is  plunged 

In  ruin,  and  its  interests  are  no  more. 

While  Corinth's  palace  to  our  lord  affords 

A  residence,  within  her  chamber  pines 

My  mistress,  and  the  counsels  of  her  friends 

Afford  no  comfort  to  her  tortured  soul. 
Medea  [unthin]. — O  that  a  flaming  thunderbolt  from  Heaven 

Would  pierce  this  brain !   for  what  can  longer  life 

To  me  avail  ?    Fain  would  I  seek  repose 

In  death,  and  cast  away  this  hated  being. 
Chorus. — Heard'st  thou,  all-righteous  Jove,  thou   fostering 
earth. 

And  thou,  O  radiant  lamp  of  day,  what  plaints, 

What  clamorous  plaints  this  miserable  wife 

Hath  uttered?    Through  insatiable  desire, 

Ah  why  would  you  precipitate  your  death  ? 


94 


EURIPIDES 


O  most  unwise !    These  imprecations  spare. 
What  if  your  lord's  affections  are  engaged 
By  a  new  bride,  reproach  him  not,  for  Jove 
Will  be  the  dread  avenger  of  your  wrongs ; 
Nor  melt  away  with  unavailing  grief, 
Weeping  for  the  lost  partner  of  your  bed. 

Medea  [within]. — Great  Themis  and  Diana,  awful  queen, 
Do  ye  behold  the  insults  I  endure. 
Though  by  each  oath  most  holy  I  have  bound 
That  execrable  husband.     May  I  see 
Him  and  his  bride,  torn  limb  from  limb,  bestrew 
The  palace ;  me  have  they  presumed  to  wrong, 
Although  I  ne'er  provoked  them.    O  my  sire, 
And  thou  my  native  land,  whence  I  with  shame 
Departed  when  my  brother  I  had  slain. 

Nurse. — Heard  ye  not  all  she  said,  with  a  loud  voice 
Invoking  Themis,  who  fulfils  the  vow. 
And  Jove,  to  whom  the  tribes  of  men  look  up 
As  guardian  of  their  oaths.     Medea's  rage 
Can  by  no  trivial  vengeance  be  appeased. 

Chorus. — Could  we  but  draw  her  hither,  and  prevail 
On  her  to  hear  the  counsels  we  suggest. 
Then  haply  might  she  check  that  bitter  wrath, 
That  vehemence  of  temper ;  for  my  zeal 
Shall  not  be  spared  to  aid  my  friends.    But  go, 
And  say,  "  O  hasten,  ere  to  those  within 
Thou  do  some  mischief,  for  these  sorrows  rush 
With  an  impetuous  tempest  on  thy  soul." 

Nurse. — This  will  I  do;  though  there  is  cause  to  fear 
That  on  my  mistress  I  shall  ne'er  prevail . 
Yet  I  my  labor  gladly  will  bestow. 
Though  such  a  look  she  on  her  servants  casts 
As  the  ferocious  lioness  who  guards 
Her  tender  young,  when  anyone  draws  near 
To  speak  to  her.    Thou  would'st  not  judge  amiss. 
In  charging  folly  and  a  total  want 
Of  wisdom  on  the  men  of  ancient  days, 
Who  for  their  festivals  invented  hymns, 
And  to  the  banquet  and  the  genial  board 
Confined  those  accents  which  o'er  human  life 


MEDEA  95 

Diffuse  ecstatic  pleasures :  but  no  artist 
Hath  yet  discovered,  by  the  tuneful  song, 
And  varied  modulations  of  the  lyre. 
How  we  those  piercing  sorrows  may  assuage 
Whence  slaughters  and  such  horrid  mischiefs  spring 
As  many  a  prosperous  mansion  have  o'erthrown. 
Could  music  interpose  her  healing  aid 
In.  these  inveterate  maladies,  such  gift 
Had  been  the  first  of  blessings  to  mankind : 
But,  'midst  choice  viands  and  the  circling  bowl. 
Why  should  those  minstrels  strain  their  useless  throats? 
To  cheer  the  drooping  heart,  convivial  joys 
Are  in  themselves  sufficient.  [Exit  Nurse. 

Chorus. —  Mingled  groans 

And  lamentations  burst  upon  mine  ear : 
She  in  the  bitterness  of  soul  exclaims 
Against  her  impious  husband,  who  betrayed 
His  plighted  faith.    By  grievous  wrongs  opprest, 
She  the  vindictive  gods  invokes,  and  Themis, 
Jove's  daughter,  guardian  of  the  sacred  oath, 
Who  o'er  the  waves  to  Greece  benignly  steered 
Their  bark  adventurous,  launched  in  midnight  gloom. 
Through  ocean's  gates  which  never  can  be  closed  I 

Enter  Medea. 

Medea. — From  my  apartment,  ye  Corinthian  dames, 
Lest  ye  my  conduct  censure,  I  come  forth : 
For  I  have  known  full  many  who  obtained 
Fame  and  high  rank ;  some  to  the  public  gaze 
Stood  ever  forth,  while  others,  in  a  sphere 
More  distant,  chose  their  merits  to  display : 
Nor  yet  a  few,  who,  studious  of  repose, 
Have  with  malignant  obloquy  been  called 
Devoid  of  spirit :  for  no  human  eyes 
Can  form  a  just  discernment ;  at  one  glance, 
Before  the  inmost  secrets  of  the  heart 
Are  clearly  known,  a  bitter  hate  'gainst  him 
Who  never  wronged  us  they  too  oft  inspire. 
But  'tis  a  stranger's  duty  to  adopt 


g6  EURIPIDES 

The  manners  of  the  land  in  which  he  dwells ; 

Nor  can  I  praise  that  native,  led  astray 

By  mere  perverseness  and  o'erweening  folly. 

Who  bitter  enmity  incurs  from  those 

Of  his  own  city.    But,  alas !  my  friends, 

This  unforeseen  calamity  hath  withered 

The  vigor  of  my  soul.    I  am  undone, 

Bereft  of  every  joy  that  life  can  yield. 

And  therefore  wish  to  die.    For  as  to  him, 

My  husband,  whom  it  did  import  me  most 

To  have  a  thorough  knowledge  of,  he  proves 

The  worst  of  men.    But  sure  among  all  those 

Who  have  with  breath  and  reason  been  endued, 

We  women  are  the  most  unhappy  race. 

First,  with  abundant  gold  are  we  constrained 

To  buy  a  husband,  and  in  him  receive 

A  haughty  master.    Still  doth  there  remain 

One  mischief  than  this  mischief  yet  more  grievous. 

The  hazard  whether  we  procure  a  mate 

Worthless  or  virtuous :  for  divorces  bring 

Reproach  to  woman,  nor  must  she  renounce 

The  man  she  wedded  ;  as  for  her  who  comes 

Where  usages  and  edicts,  which  at  home 

She  learnt  not,  are  established,  she  the  gift 

Of  divination  needs  to  teach  her  how 

A  husband  must  be  chosen :  if  aright 

These  duties  we  perform,  and  he  the  yoke 

Of  wedlock  with  complacency  sustains. 

Ours  is  a  happy  life ;  but  if  we  fail 

In  this  great  object,  better  'twere  to  die. 

For,  when  afflicted  by  domestic  ills, 

A  man  goes  forth,  his  choler  to  appease. 

And  to  some  friend  or  comrade  can  reveal 

What  he  endures ;  but  we  to  him  alone 

For  succor  must  look  up.    They  still  contend 

That  we,  at  home  remaining,  lead  a  life 

Exempt  from  danger,  while  they  launch  the  spear : 

False  are  these  judgments ;  rather  would  I  thrice. 

Armed  with  a  target,  in  th'  embattled  field 

Maintain  my  stand,  than  suffer  once  the  throes 


MEDEA  97 

Of  childbirth.    But  this  language  suits  not  you : 
This  is  your  native  city,  the  abode 
Of  your  loved  parents,  every  comfort  life 
Can  furnish  is  at  hand,  and  with  your  friends 
You  here  converse :  but  I,  forlorn,  and  left 
Without  a  home,  am  by  that  husband  scorned 
Who  carried  me  from  a  Barbarian  realm. 
Nor  mother,  brother,  or  relation  now 
Have  I,  to  whom  I  'midst  these  storms  of  woe, 
Like  an  auspicious  haven,  can  repair. 
Thus  far  I  therefore  crave  ye  will  espouse 
My  interests,  as  if  haply  any  means 
Or  any  stratagem  can  be  devised 
For  me  with  justice  to  avenge  these  wrongs 
On  my  perfidious  husband,  on  the  king 
Who  to  that  husband's  arms  his  daughter  gave. 
And  the  new-wedded  princess ;  to  observe 
Strict  silence.    For  although  at  other  times 
A  woman,  filled  with  terror,  is  unfit 
For  battle,  or  to  face  the  lifted  sword, 
She  when  her  soul  by  marriage  wrongs  is  fired. 
Thirsts  with  a  rage  unparalleled  for  blood. 
Chorus. — The  silence  you  request  I  will  observe. 
For  justly  on  your  lord  may  you  inflict 
Severest  vengeance :  still  I  wonder  not 
If  your  disastrous  fortunes  you  bewail: 
But  Creon  I  behold  who  wields  the  sceptre 
Of  these  domains  ;  the  monarch  hither  comes 
His  fresh  resolves  in  person  to  declare. 

Enter  Creon. 

Creon. — Thee,  O  Medea,  who,  beneath  those  looks 

Stern  and  forbidding,  harbor'st  'gainst  thy  lord 
Resentment,  I  command  to  leave  these  realms 
An  exile ;  for  companions  of  thy  flight 
Take  both  thy  children  with  thee,  nor  delay. 
Myself  pronounce  this  edict :   I  my  home 
Will  not  revisit,  from  the  utmost  bounds 
Of  this  domain,  till  I  have  cast  thee  forth. 


98 


EURIPIDES 


Medea. — Ah,  wretched  me !  I  utterly  am  ruined : 
For  in  the  swift  pursuit,  my  ruthless  foes, 
Each  cable  loosing,  have  unfurled  their  sails, 
Nor  can  I  land  on  any  friendly  shore 
To  save  myself,  yet  am  resolved  to  speak, 
Though  punishment  impend.    What  cause,  O  Creon, 
Have  you  for  banishing  me? 

Creon. —  Thee  I  dread 

(No  longer  is  it  needful  to  disguise 
My  thoughts)  lest  'gainst  my  daughter  thou  contrive 
Some  evil  such  as  medicine  cannot  reach. 
Full  many  incidents  conspire  to  raise 
This  apprehension :  with  a  deep-laid  craft 
Art  thou  endued,  expert  in  the  device 
Of  mischiefs  numberless,  thou  also  griev'st 
Since  thou  art  severed  from  thy  husband's  bed. 
I  am  informed,  too,  thou  hast  menaced  vengeance 
'Gainst  me,  because  my  daughter  I  bestowed 
In  marriage,  and  the  bridegroom,  and  his  bride. 
Against  these  threats  I  therefore  ought  to  guard 
Before  they  take  effect;  and  better  far 
Is  it  for  me,  O  woman,  to  incur 
Thy  hatred  now,  than,  soothed  by  thy  mild  words, 
Hereafter  my  forbearance  to  bewail. 

Medea. — Not  now,  alas !  for  the  first  time,  but  oft 
To  me,  O  Creon,  hath  opinion  proved 
Most  baleful,  and  the  source  of  grievous  woes. 
Nor  ever  ought  the  man,  who  is  possest 
Of  a  sound  judgment,  to  train  up  his  children 
To  be  too  wise :  for  they  who  live  exempt 
From  war  and  all  its  toils,  the  odious  name 
Among  their  fellow-citizens  acquire 
Of  abject  sluggards.    If  to  the  unwise 
You  some  fresh  doctrine  broach,  you  are  esteemed 
Not  sapient,  but  a  trifler :  when  to  those 
Wlio  in  their  own  conceit  possess  each  branch 
Of  knowledge,  you  in  state  affairs  obtain 
Superior  fame,  to  them  you  grow  obnoxious. 
I  also  feel  the  grievance  I  lament ; 
Some  envy  my  attainments,  others  think 


MEDEA 

My  temper  uncomplying,  though  my  wisdom 
Is  not  transcendent.    But  from  me  it  seems 
You  apprehend  some  violence;  dismiss 
Those  fears ;  my  situation  now  is  such, 
O  Creon,  that  to  monarchs  I  can  give 
No  umbrage :  and  in  what  respect  have  you 
Treated  me  with  injustice?    You  bestowed 
Your  daughter  where  your  inchnation  led. 
Though  I  abhor  my  husband,  I  suppose 
That  you  have  acted  wisely,  nor  repine 
At  your  prosperity.    Conclude  the  match ; 
Be  happy :  but  allow  me  in  this  land 
Yet  to  reside ;  for  I  my  wrongs  will  bear 
In  silence,  and  to  my  superiors  yield. 

Creon. — Soft  is  the  sound  of  thy  persuasive  words. 
But  in  my  soul  I  feel  the  strongest  dread 
Lest  thou  devise  some  mischief,  and  now  less 
Than  ever  can  I  trust  thee ;  for  'gainst  those 
Of  hasty  tempers  with  more  ease  we  guard, 
Or  men  or  women,  than  the  silent  foe 
Who  acts  with  prudence.    Therefore  be  thou  gone 
With  speed,  no  answer  make :  it  is  decreed, 
Nor  hast  thou  art  sufficient  to  avert 
Thy  doom  of  banishment ;  for  well  aware 
Am  I  thou  hat'st  me. 

Medea, —  Spare  me,  by  those  knees 

And  your  new-wedded  daughter,  I  implore. 

Creon. — Lavish  of  words,  thou  never  shalt  persuade  me. 

Medea. — Will  you  then  drive  me  hence,  and  to  my  prayers 
No  reverence  yield? 

Creon. —  I  do  not  love  thee  more 

Than  those  of  my  own  house. 

Medea. —  With  what  regret 

Do  I  remember  thee,  my  native  land ! 

Creon. — Except  my  children,  I  hold  nought  so  dear. 

Medea. — To  mortals  what  a  dreadful  scourge  is  love  I 

Creon. — As  fortune  dictates,  love  becomes,  I  ween, 
Either  a  curse  or  blessing. 

Medea. —  Righteous  Jove, 

Let  not  the  author  of  my  woes  escape  thee. 


99 


loo  EURIPIDES 

Creon. — Away,  vain  woman,  free  me  from  my  cares. 

Medea. — No  lack  of  cares  have  I. 

Creon. —  Thou  from  this  spot 

Shalt  by  my  servants'  hands  ere  long  be  torn 

Medea. — Not  thus,  O  Creon,  I  your  mercy  crave, 

Creon. — To  trouble  me,  it  seems,  thou  art  resolved. 

Medea. — I  will  depart,  nor  urge  this  fond  request. 

Creon. — Why  dost  thou  struggle  then,  nor  from  our  realm 
Withdraw  thyself  ? 

Medea. —  Allow  me  this  one  day 

Here  to  remain,  till  my  maturer  thoughts 
Instruct  me  to  what  region  I  can  fly. 
Where  for  my  sons  find  shelter,  since  their  sire 
Attends  not  to  the  welfare  of  his  race. 
Take  pity  on  them,  for  you  also  know 
What  'tis  to  be  a  parent,  and  must  feel 
Parental  love :  as  for  myself,  I  heed  not 
The  being  doomed  to  exile,  but  lament 
Their  hapless  fortunes. 

Creon. —  No  tyrannic  rage 

Within  this  bosom  dwells,  but  pity  oft 
Hath  warped  my  better  judgment,  and  though  now 
My  error  I  perceive,  shall  thy  bequest 
Be  granted.    Yet  of  this  must  I  forewarn  thee : 
H  when  to-morrow  with  his  orient  beams 
Phoebos  the  world  revisits,  he  shall  view 
Thee  and  thy  children  still  within  the  bounds 
Of  these  domains,  thou  certainly  shalt  die — 
Th'  irrevocable  sentence  is  pronounced. 
But  if  thou  needs  must  tarry,  tarry  here 
This  single  day,  for  in  so  short  a  space 
Thou  canst  not  execute  the  ills  I  dread.     [Exit  Creon, 

Chorus. — Alas !  thou  wretched  woman,  overpowered 
By  thy  afflictions,  whither  wilt  thou  turn  ? 
What  hospitable  board,  what  mansion,  find, 
Or  country  to  protect  thee  from  these  ills  ? 
Into  what  storms  of  misery  have  the  gods 
Caused  thee  to  rush ! 

Medea. —  On  every  side  distress 

Assails  me :  who  can  contradict  this  truth? 


MEDEA  loi 

Yet  think  not  that  my  sorrows  thus  shall  end. 

By  yon  new-wedded  pair  must  be  sustained 

Dire  conflicts,  and  no  light  or  trivial  woes 

By  them  who  in  affinity  are  joined 

With  this  devoted  house.    Can  ye  suppose 

That  I  would  e'er  have  soothed  him,  had  no  gain 

Or  stratagem  induced  me  ?    Else  to  him 

Never  would  I  have  spoken,  nor  once  raised 

My  suppliant  hands.    But  now  is  he  so  lost 

In  folly,  that,  when  all  my  schemes  with  ease 

He  might  have  baffled,  if  he  from  this  land 

Had  cast  me  forth,  he  grants  me  to  remain 

For  this  one  day,  and  ere  the  setting  sun 

Three  of  my  foes  will  I  destroy — the  sire, 

The  daughter,  and  my  husband :  various  means 

Have  I  of  slaying  them,  and,  O  my  friends, 

Am  at  a  loss  to  fix  on  which  I  first 

Shall  undertake,  or  to  consume  with  flames 

The  bridal  mansion,  or  a  dagger  plunge 

Into  their  bosoms,  entering  unperceived 

The  chamber  where  they  sleep.    But  there  remains 

One  danger  to  obstruct  my  path :  if  caught 

Stealing  into  the  palace,  and  intent 

On  such  emprise,  in  death  shall  I  afford 

A  subject  of  derision  to  my  foes. 

This  obvious  method  were  the  best,  in  which 

I  am  most  skilled,  to  take  their  lives  away 

By  sorceries.    Be  it  so ;  suppose  them  dead. 

What  city  will  receive  me  for  its  guest, 

What  hospitable  foreigner  afford 

A  shelter  in  his  land,  or  to  his  hearth 

Admit,  or  snatch  me  from  impending  fate? 

Alas !  I  have  no  friend.    I  will  delay 

A  little  longer  therefore ;  if  perchance, 

To  screen  me  from  destruction,  I  can  find 

Some  fortress,  then  I  in  this  deed  of  blood 

With  artifice  and  silence  will  engage ; 

But,  if  by  woes  inextricable  urged 

Too  closely,  snatching  up  the  dagger  them 

Am  I  resolved  to  slay,  although  myself 


I03  EURIPIDES 

Must  perish  too ;  for  courage  unappalled 
This  bosom  animates.    By  that  dread  queen, 
By  her  whom  first  of  all  th'  immortal  powers 
I  worship,  and  to  aid  my  bold  emprise 
Have  chosen,  the  thrice  awful  Hecate, 
Who  in  my  innermost  apartment  dwells, 
Not  one  of  them  shall  triumph  in  the  pangs 
With  which  they  wound  my  heart ;  for  I  will  render 
This  spousal  rite  to  them  a  plenteous  source 
Of  bitterness  and  mourning — they  shall  rue 
Their  union,  rue  my  exile  from  this  land. 
But  now  come  on,  nor,  O  Medea,  spare 
Thy  utmost  science  to  devise  and  frame 
Deep  stratagems,  with  swift  career  advance 
To  deeds  of  horror.    Such  a  strife  demands 
Thy  utmost  courage.    Hast  thou  any  sense 
Of  these  indignities  ?    Nor  is  it  fit 
That  thou,  who  spring'st  from  an  illustrious  sire. 
And  from  that  great  progenitor  the  sun, 
Should'st  be  derided  by  the  impious  brood 
Of  Sisyphos,  at  Jason's  nuptial  feast 
Exposed  to  scorn :  for  thou  hast  ample  skill 
To  right  thyself.    Although  by  Nature  formed 
Without  a  genius  apt  for  virtuous  deeds. 
We  women  are  in  mischiefs  most  expert. 
Chorus. — Now  upward  to  their  source  the  rivers  flow. 
And  in  a  retrograde  career 
Justice  and  all  the  baffled  virtues  go. 
The  views  of  man  are  insincere. 
Nor  to  the  gods  though  he  appeal, 
And  with  an  oath  each  promise  seal. 
Can  he  be  trusted.    Yet  doth  veering  fame 
Loudly  assert  the  female  claim. 
Causing  our  sex  to  be  renowned, 
And  our  whole  lives  with  glory  crowned. 
No  longer  shall  we  mourn  the  wrongs 
Of  slanderous  and  inhuman  tongues. 
Nor  shall  the  Muses,  as  in  ancient  days, 

Make  the  deceit  of  womankind 
The  constant  theme  of  their  malignant  lays. 


MEDEA'  103 

For  ne'er  on  our  uncultured  mind 
Hath  Phoebos,  god  of  verse,  bestowed 
Genius  to  frame  the  lofty  ode ; 
Else  had  we  waked  the  lyre,  and  in  reply 
With  descants  on  man's  infamy 
Oft  lengthened  out  th'  opprobrious  page. 
Yet  may  we  from  each  distant  age 
Collect  such  records  as  disgrace 
Both  us  and  man's  imperious  race. 

By  love  distracted,  from  thy  native  strand, 
Thou  'twixt  the  ocean's  clashing  rocks  didst  sail. 
But  now,  loathed  inmate  of  a  foreign  land, 
Thy  treacherous  husband's  loss  art  doomed  to  waiL 
O  hapless  matron,  overwhelmed  with  woe, 
From  this  unpitying  realm  dishonored  must  thou  go. 

No  longer  sacred  oaths  their  credit  bear, 
And  virtuous  shame  hath  left  the  Grecian  plain, 
She  mounts  to  Heaven,  and  breathes  a  purer  air. 
For  thee  doth  no  paternal  house  remain 
The  sheltering  haven  from  affliction's  tides ; 
Over  these  hostile  roofs  a  mightier  queen  presides. 

Enter  Jason. 

Jason. — Not  now  for  the  first  time,  but  oft,  full  oft 
Have  I  observed  that  anger  is  a  pest 
The  most  unruly.    For  when  in  this  land. 
These  mansions,  you  in  peace  might  have  abode, 
By  patiently  submitting  to  the  will 
Of  your  superiors,  you,  for  empty  words, 
Are  doomed  to  exile.    Not  that  I  regard 
Your  calling  Jason  with  incessant  rage 
The  worst  of  men  ;  but  for  those  bitter  taunts 
With  which  you  have  reviled  a  mighty  king, 
Too  mild  a  penalty  may  you  esteem 
Such  banishment.    I  still  have  soothed  the  wrath 
Of  the  offended  monarch,  still  have  wished 
That  you  might  here  continue ;  but  no  bounds 


104  EURIPIDES 

Your  folly  knows,  nor  can  that  tongue  e'er  cease 
To  utter  menaces  against  your  lords; 
Hence  from  these  regions  justly  are  you  doomed 
To  be  cast  forth.    But  with  unwearied  love 
Attentive  to  your  interest  am  I  come, 
Lest  with  your  children  you  by  cruel  want 
Should  be  encompassed ;  exile  with  it  brings 
Full  many  evils.    Me,  though  you  abhor. 
To  you  1  harbor  no  unfriendly  thought. 
Medea. — Thou  worst  of  villains  (  for  this  bitter  charge 
Against  thy  abject  cowardice  my  tongue 
May  justly  urge),  com'st  thou  to  me,  O  wretch. 
Who  to  the  gods  art  odious,  and  to  me 
And  all  the  human  race  ?    It  is  no  proof 
Of  courage,  or  of  steadfastness,  to  face 
Thy  injured  friends,  but  impudence,  the  worst 
Of  all  diseases.    Yet  hast  thou  done  well 
In  coming :  I  by  uttering  the  reproaches 
Which  thou  deservest  shall  ease  my  burdened  soul, 
And  thou  wilt  grieve  to  hear  them.    With  th'  events 
Which  happened  first  will  I  begin  my  charge. 
Each  Grecian  chief  who  in  the  Argo  sailed 
Knows  how  from  death  I  saved  thee,  when  to  yoke 
The  raging  bulls  whose  nostrils  poured  forth  flames. 
And  sow  the  baleful  harvest,  thou  wert  sent : 
Then  having  slain  the  dragon,  who  preserved 
With  many  a  scaly  fold  the  golden  fleece, 
Nor  ever  closed  in  sleep  his  watchful  eyes, 
I  caused  the  morn  with  its  auspicious  beams 
To  shine  on  thy  deliverance  ;  but,  my  sire 
And  native  land  betraying,  came  with  thee 
To  Pelion,  and  lolchos'  gates :  for  love 
Prevailed  o'er  reason.    Pelias  next  I  slew — 
Most  wretched  death — by  his  own  daughter's  hands, 
And  thus  delivered  thee  from  all  thy  fears. 
Yet  though  to  me,  O  most  ungrateful  man. 
Thus  much  indebted,  hast  thou  proved  a  traitor. 
And  to  the  arms  of  this  new  consort  fled, 
Although  a  rising  progeny  is  thine. 
Hadst  thou  been  childless,  'twere  a  venial  fault 


MEDEA  lOS 

In  thee  to  court  another  for  thy  bride. 

But  vanished  is  the  faith  which  oaths  erst  bore. 

Nor  can  I  judge  whether  thou  think'st  the  gods 

Who  ruled  the  world  have  lost  their  ancient  power 

Or  that  fresh  laws  at  present  are  in  force 

Among  mankind,  because  thou  to  thyself 

Art  conscious,  thou  thy  plighted  faith  hast  broken. 

O  my  right  hand,  which  thou  didst  oft  embrace, 

Oft  to  these  knees  a  suppliant  cling !    How  vainly 

Did  I  my  virgin  purity  yield  up 

To  a  perfidious  husband,  led  astray 

By  flattering  hopes !    Yet  I  to  thee  will  speak 

As  if  thou  wert  a  friend,  and  I  expected 

From  thee  some  mighty  favor  to  obtain : 

Yet  thou,  if  strictly  questioned,  must  appear 

More  odious.    Whither  shall  I  turn  me  now  ? 

To  those  deserted  mansions  of  my  father. 

Which,  with  my  country,  I  to  thee  betrayed, 

And  hither  came ;  or  to  the  wretched  daughters 

Of  Pelias?    They  forsooth,  whose  sire  I  slew. 

Beneath  their  roofs  with  kindness  would  receive  me. 

*Tis  even  thus :  by  those  of  my  own  house 

Am  I  detested,  and,  to  serve  thy  cause. 

Those  very  friends,  whom  least  of  all  I  ought 

To  have  unkindly  treated,  have  I  made 

My  enemies.    But  eager  to  reap 

Such  favors,  'mongst  unnumbered  Grecian  dames, 

On  me  superior  bliss  hast  thou  bestowed. 

And  I,  unhappy  woman,  find  in  thee 

A  husband  who  deserves  to  be  admired 

For  his  fidelity.     But  from  this  realm 

When  I  am  exiled,  and  by  every  friend 

Deserted,  with  my  children  left  forlorn, 

A  glorious  triumph,  in  thy  bridal  hour. 

To  thee  will  it  afford,  if  those  thy  sons. 

And  I  who  saved  thee,  should  like  vagrants  roam. 

Wherefore,  O  Jove,  didst  thou  instruct  mankind 

How  to  distinguish  by  undoubted  marks 

Counterfeit  gold,  yet  in  the  front  of  vice 

Impress  no  brand  to  show  the  tainted  heart? 


So6  EURIPIDES 

Chorus. — How  sharp  their  wrath,  how  hard  to  be  appeased, 

When  friends  with  friends  begin  the  cruel  strife. 
Jason. — I  ought  not  to  be  rash,  it  seems,  in  speech. 
But  Hke  the  skilful  pilot,  who,  with  sails 
Scarce  half  unfurled,  his  bark  more  surely  glides, 
Escape,  O  woman,  your  ungoverned  tongue. 
Since  you  the  benefits  on  me  conferred 
Exaggerate  in  so  proud  a  strain,  I  deem 
That  I  to  Venus  only,  and  no  god 
Or  man  beside,  my  prosperous  voyage  owe. 
Although  a  wondrous  subtlety  of  soul 
To  you  belong,  'twere  an  invidious  speech 
For  me  to  make  should  I  relate  how  Love 
By  his  inevitable  shafts  constrained  you 
To  save  my  life.    I  will  not  therefore  state 
This  argument  too  nicely,  but  allow, 
As  you  did  aid  me,  it  was  kindly  done. 
But  by  preserving  me  have  you  gained  more 
Than  you  bestowed,  as  I  shall  prove :  and  first, 
Transplanted  from  barbaric  shores,  you  dwell 
In  Grecian  regions,  and  have  here  been  taught 
To  act  as  justice  and  the  laws  ordain, 
Nor  follow  the  caprice  of  brutal  strength. 
By  all  the  Greeks  your  wisdom  is  perceived, 
And  you  acquire  renown  ;  but  had  you  still 
Inhabited  that  distant  spot  of  earth, 
You  never  had  been  named.    I  would  not  wish 
For  mansions  heaped  with  gold,  or  to  exceed 
The  sweetest  notes  of  Orpheus'  magic  lyre, 
Were  those  unfading  wreaths  which  fame  bestows 
From  me  withheld  by  fortune.    I  thus  far 
On  my  own  labors  only  have  discoursed. 
For  you  this  odious  strife  of  words  began. 
But  in  espousing  Creon's  royal  daughter. 
With  which  you  have  reproached  me,  I  will  prove 
That  I  in  acting  thus  am  wise  and  chaste. 
That  I  to  you  have  been  the  best  of  friends. 
And  to  our  children.    But  make  no  reply. 
Since  hither  from  lolchos'  land  I  came, 
Accompanied  by  many  woes,  and  such 


MEDEA  i07 

As  could  not  be  avoided,  what  device 

More  advantageous  could  an  exile  frame 

Than  wedding  the  king's  daughter?    Not  through  hate 

To  you,  which  you  reproach  me  with,  not  smitten 

With  love  for  a  new  consort,  or  a  wish 

The  number  of  my  children  to  augment : 

For  those  we  have  already  might  suffice, 

And  I  complain  not.    But  to  me  it  seemed 

Of  great  importance  that  we  both  might  live 

As  suits  our  rank,  nor  suffer  abject  need. 

Well  knowing  that  each  friend  avoids  the  poor. 

I  also  wished  to  educate  our  sons 

In  such  a  manner  as  befits  my  race 

And  with  their  noble  brothers  yet  unborn, 

Make  them  one  family,  that  thus,  my  house 

Cementing,  I  might  prosper.    In  some  measure 

Is  it  your  interest  too  that  by  my  bride 

I  should  have  sons,  and  me  it  much  imports, 

By  future  children,  to  provide  for  those 

Who  are  in  being.    Have  I  judged  amiss? 

You  would  not  censure  me,  unless  your  soul 

Were  by  a  rival  stung.    But  your  whole  sex 

Hath  these  ideas  ;  if  in  marriage  blest 

Ye  deem  nought  wanting,  but  if  some  reverse 

Of  fortune  e'er  betide  the  nuptial  couch. 

All  that  was  good  and  lovely  ye  abhor. 

Far  better  were  it  for  the  human  race 

Had  children  been  produced  by  other  means. 

No  females  e'er  existing :  hence  might  man 

Exempt  from  every  evil  have  remained. 

Chorus. — Thy  words  hast  thou  with  specious  art  adorned, 
Yet  thou  to  me  (it  is  against  my  will 
That  I  such  language  hold),  O  Jason,  seem'st 
Not  to  have  acted  justly  in  betraying 
Thy  consort. 

Medea. —  From  the  many  I  dissent 

In  many  points:  for,  in  my  judgment,  he 
Who  tramples  on  the  laws,  but  can  express 
His  thoughts  with  plausibility,  deserves 
Severest  punishment :  for  that  injustice 


io8  EURIPIDES 

On  which  he  glories,  with  his  artful  tongue, 

That  he  a  fair  appearance  can  bestow, 

He  dares  to  practise,  nor  is  truly  wise. 

No  longer  then  this  specious  language  hold 

To  me,  who  by  one  word  can  strike  thee  dumb. 

Hadst  thou  not  acted  with  a  base  design, 

It  was  thy  duty  first  to  have  prevailed 

On  me  to  give  consent,  ere  these  espousals 

Thou  hadst  contracted,  nor  kept  such  design 

A  secret  from  thy  friends. 
Jason. —  You  would  have  served 

My  cause  most  gloriously,  had  I  disclosed 

To  you  my  purposed  nuptials,  when  the  rage 

Of  that  proud  heart  still  unsubdued  remains. 
Medea, — Thy  real  motive  was  not  what  thou  say'st, 

But  a  Barbarian  wife,  in  thy  old  age. 

Might  have  appeared  to  tarnish  thy  renown. 
Jason. — Be  well  assured,  love  urged  me  not  to  take 

The  daughter  of  the  monarch  to  my  bed. 

But  'twas  my  wish  to  save  you  from  distress, 

As  I  already  have  declared,  and  raise 

Some  royal  brothers  to  our  former  sons. 

Strengthening  with  fresh  supports  our  shattered  house. 
Medea. — May  that  prosperity  which  brings  remorse 

Be  never  mine,  nor  riches  such  as  sting 

The  soul  with  anguish. 
Jason. —  Are  you  not  aware 

You  soon  will  change  your  mind  and  grow  more  wise! 

Forbear  to  spurn  the  blessings  you  possess, 

Nor  droop  beneath  imaginary  woes. 

When  you  are  happy. 
Medea. —  Scoff  at  my  distress, 

For  thou  hast  an  asylum  to  receive  thee : 

But  from  this  land  am  I  constrained  to  roam 

A  lonely  exile. 
Jason. —  This  was  your  own  choice : 

Accuse  none  else. 
Medea. —  What  have  I  done — betrayed 

My  plighted  faith  and  sought  a  foreign  bed  ? 


MEDEA  109 

Jason. — You  uttered  impious  curses  'gainst  the  king. 
Medea. — I  also  in  thy  mansions  am  accursed. 
Jason. — With  you  I  on  these  subjects  will  contend 
No  longer.    But  speak  freely,  what  reUef, 
Or  for  the  children  or  your  exiled  state, 
You  from  my  prosperous  fortunes  would  receive: 
For  with  a  liberal  hand  am  I  inclined 
My  bounties  to  confer,  and  hence  despatch 
Such  tokens,  as  to  hospitable  kindness 
Will  recommend  you.    Woman,  to  refuse 
These  offers  were  mere  folly ;  from  your  soul 
Banish  resentment,  and  no  trifling  gain 
Will  hence  ensue. 
Medea. —  No  use  I  of  thy  friends 

Will  make,  nor  aught  accept ;  thy  presents  spare, 
For  nothing  which  the  wicked  man  can  give 
Proves  beneficial. 
Jason. —  I  invoke  the  gods 

To  witness  that  I  gladly  would  supply 
You  and  your  children  with  whate'er  ye  need: 
But  you  these  favors  loathe,  and  with  disdain 
Repel  your  friends :  hence  an  increase  of  woe 
Shall  be  your  lot. 
Medea. —  Be  gone ;  for  thou,  with  love 

For  thy  young  bride  inflamed,  too  long  remain'st 
Without  the  palace.    Wed  her ;  though  perhaps 
(Yet  with  submission  to  the  righteous  gods, 
This  I  announce)  such  marriage  thou  may'st  rue. 

[Exit  Jason. 
Chorus. — Th'  immoderate  loves  in  their  career. 
Nor  glory  nor  esteem  attends. 
But  when  the  Cyprian  queen  descends 
Benignant  from  her  starry  sphere, 
No  goddess  can  more  justly  claim 
From  man  the  grateful  prayer. 
Thy  wrath,  O  Venus,  still  forbear. 
Nor  at  my  tender  bosom  aim 
That  venomed  arrow,  ever  wont  t'  inspire 
Winged  from  thy  golden  bov;  the  pangs  of  keen  desire. 


V 


tio  EURIPIDES 

May  I  in  modesty  delight, 
Best  present  which  the  gods  can  give, 
Nor  torn  by  jarring  passions  live 
A  prey  to  wrath  and  cankered  spite, 
Still  envious  of  a  rival's  charms. 

Nor  rouse  the  endless  strife 
While  on  my  soul  another  wife 
Impresses  vehement  alarms: 
On  us,  dread  queen,  thy  mildest  influence  shed, 
Thou  who  discem'st  each  crime  that  stains  the  nuptial 

bed. 

My  native  land,  and  dearest  home ! 
May  I  ne'er  know  an  exiled  state. 
Nor  be  it  ever  my  sad  fate 
While  from  thy  well-known  bourn  I  roam. 
My  hopeless  anguish  to  bemoan. 

Rather  let  death,  let  death 
Take  at  that  hour  my  forfeit  breath, 
For  surely  never  was  there  known 
On  earth  a  curse  so  great  as  to  exceed, 
From  his  loved  country  torn,  the  wretched  exile's  need. 

These  eyes  attest  thy  piteous  tale. 
Which  not  from  fame  alone  we  know; 
But,  O  thou  royal  dame,  thy  woe 
No  generous  city  doth  bewail. 
Nor  one  among  thy  former  friends. 
Abhorred  by  Heaven  and  earth. 
Perish  the  wretch  devoid  of  worth. 
Engrossed  by  mean  and  selfish  ends. 
Whose  heart  expands  not  those  he  loved  to  aid; 
Never  may  I  lament  attachments  thus  repaid. 

Enter  Mgeus. 

iEcEus. — Medea,  hail !  for  no  man  can  devise 

Terms  more  auspicious  to  accost  his  friends. 

Medea. — And  you,  O  son  of  wise  Pandion,  hail 
Illustrious  ^geus.    But  to  these  domains 
Whence  came  you  ? 


MEDEA  1 1 1 

Mgeus. —  From  Apollo's  ancient  shrine. 

Medea. — But  to  that  centre  of  the  world,  whence  sounds 

Prophetic  issue,  why  did  you  repair  ? 
^GEUS. — To  question  by  what  means  I  may  obtain 

A  race  of  children. 
Medea. —  By  the  gods,  inform  me, 

Are  you  still  doomed  to  drag  a  childless  life? 
iEcEus. — Such  is  the  influence  of  some  adverse  demon. 
Medea. — Have  you  a  wife,  or  did  you  never  try 

The  nuptial  yoke  ? 
yEcEUS, —  With  wedlock's  sacred  bonds 

I  am  not  unacquainted. 
Medea. —  On  the  subject 

Of  children,  what  did  Phoebos  say? 
i^GEUS. —  His  words 

Were  such  as  mortals  cannot  comprehend. 
Medea. — Am  I  allowed  to  know  the  god's  reply  ? 
JEgevs. — Thou  surely  art :  such  mystery  to  expound 

There  needs  the  help  of  thy  sagacious  soul. 
Medea. — Inform  me  what  the  oracle  pronounced, 

If  I  may  hear  it. 
^GEUS. —  "  The  projecting  foot, 

Thou,  of  the  vessel  must  not  dare  to  loose  " — 
Medea. — Till  you  do  what,  or  to  what  region  come? 
i^GEus. — "  Till  thou  return  to  thy  paternal  lares," 
Medea. — But  what  are  you  in  need  of,  that  you  steer 

Your  bark  to  Corinth's  shores  ? 
tEgeus. —  A  king,  whose  name 

Is  Pittheus,  o'er  Troezene's  realm  presides. 
Medea. — That  most  religious  man,  they  say,  is  son 

Of  Pelops. 
iEcEUS. —  I  with  him  would  fain  discuss 

The  god's  prophetic  voice. 
Medea. —  For  he  is  wise, 

And  in  this  science  long  hath  been  expert. 
^GEUS. — Dearest  to  me  of  those  with  whom  I  formed 

A  leagfue  of  friendship  in  the  embattled  field. 
Medea. — But,  O  may  you  be  happy,  and  obtain 

All  that  you  wish  for. 

iEcEUS. —  Why  those  downcast  eyes, 

That  wasted  form?  ^,     .        xr  ,    ,«    ^^ 

Classics.     Vol.   36 — F 


112  EURIPIDES 

Medea. —  O  i^geus,  he  I  wedded 

To  me  hath  proved  of  all  mankind  most  base. 
iEcEus. — What  mean'st  thou  ?    In  plain  terms  thy  grief  declare. 
Medea. — Jason  hath  wronged  me,  though  without  a  cause. 
^Egeus. — Be  more  explicit,  what  injurious  treatment 

Complain'st  thou  of  ? 
Medea. —  To  me  hath  he  preferred 

Another  wife,  the  mistress  of  this  house. 
-(^geus. — Dared  he  to  act  so  basely  ? 
Medea. —  Be  assured 

That  I,  whom  erst  he  loved,  am  now  forsaken. 
JEgeus. — What  amorous  passion  triumphs  o'er  his  soul  ? 

Or  doth  he  loathe  thy  bed  ? 
Medea. —  'Tis  mighty  love, 

That  to  his  first  attachment  makes  him  false. 
JEoEUS. — Let  him  depart  then,  if  he  be  so  void 

Of  honor  as  thou  say'st. 
Medea. —  He  sought  to  form 

Alliance  with  a  monarch. 
iEcEus. —  Who  bestows 

On  him  a  royal  bride?    Conclude  thy  tale. 
Medea. — Creon,  the  ruler  of  this  land. 
i^GEus. —  Thy  sorrows 

Are  then  excusable. 
Medea. —  I  am  undone, 

And  banished  hence. 
.(Egeus. —  By  whom  ?    There  is  not  a  word 

Thou  utter'st  but  unfolds  fresh  scenes  of  woe. 
Medea. — Me  from  this  realm  to  exile  Creon  drives. 
.^geus. — Doth  Jason  suffer  this  ?    I  cannot  praise 

Such  conduct. 
Medea. —  Not  in  words :  though  he  submits 

Without  reluctance.    But  I  by  that  beard, 

And  by  those  knees,  a  wretched  suppliant,  crave 

Your  pity ;  see  me  not  cast  forth  forlorn, 

But  to  your  realms  and  to  your  social  hearth 

Receive  me  as  a  guest ;   so  may  your  desire 

For  children  be  accomplished  by  the  gods, 

And  happiness  your  close  of  life  attend. 

But  how  important  a  discovery  Fortune 


MEDEA 


"3 


To  you  here  makes  you  are  not  yet  apprised : 
For  destitute  of  heirs  will  I  permit  you 
No  longer  to  remain,  but  through  my  aid 
Shall  you  have  sons,  such  potent  drugs  I  know. 

JEgeus. — Various  inducements  urge  me  to  comply 
With  this  request,  O  woman ;  first  an  awe 
For  the  immortal  gods,  and  then  the  hope 
That  I  the  promised  issue  shall  obtain. 
On  what  my  senses  scarce  can  comprehend 
I  will  rely.    O  that  thy  arts  may  prove 
Effectual !     Thee,  if  haply  thou  arriv'st 
In  my  domain,  with  hospitable  rites 
Shall  it  be  my  endeavor  to  receive, 
As  justice  dictates :  but  to  thee,  thus  much 
It  previously  behoves  me  to  announce : 
I  will  not  take  thee  with  me  from  this  realm ; 
But  to  my  house  if  of  thyself  thou  come 
Thou  a  secure  asylum  there  shalt  find, 
Nor  will  I  yield  thee  up  to  any  foe. 
But  hence  without  my  aid  must  thou  depart, 
For  I,  from  those  who  in  this  neighboring  land 
Of  Corinth  entertain  me  as  their  guest, 
Wish  to  incur  no  censure. 

Medea. —  Your  commands 

Shall  be  obeyed :  but  would  you  plight  your  faith 
That  you  this  promise  will  to  me  perform, 
A  noble  friend  in  you  shall  I  have  found. 

.^GEUS. — Believ'st    thou    not?     Whence    rise    these   anxious 
doubts? 

Medea. — In  you  I  trust ;  though  Pelias'  hostile  race 
And  Creon's  hate  pursue  me :  but,  if  bound 
By  the  firm  sanction  of  a  solemn  oath. 
You  will  not  suffer  them  with  brutal  force 
To  drag  me  from  your  realm,  but  having  entered 
Into  such  compact,  and  by  every  god 
Sworn  to  protect  me,  still  remain  a  friend. 
Nor  hearken  to  their  embassies.    My  fortune 
Is  in  its  wane,  but  wealth  to  them  belongs, 
And  an  imperial  mansion. 

iEcEUS. —  In  these  words 


114  EURIPIDES 

Hast  thou  expressed  great  forethought :  but  if  thus 

Thou  art  disposed  to  act,  I  my  consent 

Will  not  refuse ;  for  I  shall  be  more  safe 

If  to  thy  foes  some  plausible  excuse 

I  can  allege,  and  thee  more  firmly  stablish. 

But  say  thou  first  what  gods  I  shall  invoke. 

Medea. — Swear  by  the  earth  on  which  we  tread,  the  sun 
My  grandsire,  and  by  all  the  race  of  gods. 

yEcEUS. — What  action,  or  to  do  or  to  forbear  ? 

Medea. — That  from  your  land  you  never  will  expel. 
Nor  while  you  live  consent  that  any  foe 
Shall  tear  me  thence. 

jEgeus. —  By  earth,  the  radiant  sun. 

And  every  god  I  swear,  I  to  the  terms 
Thou  hast  proposed  will  steadfastly  adhere. 

Medea. — This  may  suffice.    But  what  if  you  infringe 
Your  oath,  what  punishment  will  you  endure? 

iEcEus. — Each  curse  that  can  befall  the  impious  man. 

Medea. — Depart,  and  prosper :  all  things  now  advance 
In  their  right  track,  and  with  the  utmost  speed 
I  to  your  city  will  direct  my  course. 
When  I  have  executed  those  designs 
I  meditate,  and  compassed  what  I  wish. 

[Exit  Mgeus. 

Chorus. — But  thee,  O  king,  may  Maia's  winged  son 
Lead  to  thy  Athens ;  there  may'st  thou  attain 
All  that  thy  soul  desires,  for  thou  to  me, 

0  ^geus,  seem'st  most  generous. 

Medea. —  Awful  Jove, 

Thou  too,  O  Justice,  who  art  ever  joined 
With  thundering  Jove,  and  bright  Hyperion's  beams. 
You  I  invoke.    Now,  O  my  friends,  o'er  those 

1  hate  shall  we  prevail :  'tis  the  career 
Of  victory  that  we  tread,  and  I  at  length 
Have  hopes  the  strictest  vengeance  on  my  foes 
To  execute :  for  where  we  most  in  need 

Of  a  protector  stood,  appeared  this  stranger. 
The  haven  of  my  counsels :  we  shall  fix 
Our  cables  to  this  poop,  soon  as  we  reach 
That  hallowed  city  where  Minerva  reigns. 


MEDEA  115 

But  now  to  you  the  whole  of  my  designs 
Will  I  relate ;  look  not  for  such  a  tale 
As  yields  delight:  some  servant  will  I  send 
An  interview  with  Jason  to  request, 
And  on  his  coming,  in  the  softest  words 
Address  him ;  say  these  matters  are  well  pleasing 
To  me,  and  in  the  strongest  terms  applaud 
That  marriage  with  the  daughter  of  the  king. 
Which  now  the  traitor  celebrates ;  then  add, 
"  'Tis  for  our  mutual  good,  'tis  rightly  done." 
But  the  request  which  I  intend  to  make 
Is  that  he  here  will  let  my  children  stay ; 
Not  that  I  mean  to  leave  them  thus  behind, 
Exposed  to  insults  in  a  hostile  realm 
From  those  I  hate ;  but  that  my  arts  may  slay 
The  royal  maid :  with  presents  in  their  hands, 
A  vesture  finely  wrought  and  golden  crown, 
Will  I  despatch  them ;  these  they  to  the  bride 
Shall  bear,  that  she  their  exile  may  reverse: 
If  these  destructive  ornaments  she  take 
And  put  them  on,  both  she,  and  every  one 
Who  touches  her,  shall  miserably  perish — 
My  presents  with  such  drugs  I  will  anoint. 
Far  as  to  this  relates,  here  ends  my  speech. 
But  I  with  anguish  think  upon  a  deed 
Of  more  than  common  horror,  which  remains 
By  me  to  be  accomplished :   for  my  sons 
Am  I  resolved  to  slay,  them  from  this  arm 
Shall  no  man  rescue.    When  I  thus  have  filled 
With  dire  confusion  Jason's  wretched  house, 
I,  from  this  land,  yet  reeking  with  the  gore 
Of  my  dear  sons,  will  fly,  and  having  dared 
A  deed  most  impious.    For  the  scornful  taunts 
Of  those  we  hate  are  not  to  be  endured, 
Happen  what  may.    Can  life  be  any  gain 
To  me  who  have  no  country  left,  no  home, 
No  place  of  refuge  ?    Greatly  did  I  err 
When  I  forsook  the  mansions  of  my  sire, 
Persuaded  by  the  flattery  of  that  Greek 
Whom  I  will  punish,  if  just  Heaven  permit. 


Ii6  EURIPIDES 

For  he  shall  not  again  behold  the  children 
I  bore  him  while  yet  living.    From  his  bride 
Nor  shall  there  issue  any  second  race, 
Since  that  vile  woman  by  my  baleful  drugs 
Vilely  to  perish  have  the  Fates  ordained. 
None  shall  think  lightly  of  me,  as  if  weak, 
Of  courage  void,  or  with  a  soul  too  tame, 
But  formed  by  Heaven  in  a  far  different  mould, 
The  terror  of  my  foes,  and  to  my  friends 
Benignant :  for  most  glorious  are  the  lives 
Of  those  who  act  with  such  determined  zeal. 
Chorus. — Since  thy  design  thus  freely  thou  to  us 
Communicat'st,  I,  through  a  wish  to  serve 
Thy  interests,  and  a  reverence  for  those  laws 
Which  all  mankind  hold  sacred,  from  thy  purpose 
Exhort  thee  to  desist. 
Medea. —  This  cannot  be: 

Yet  I  from  you,  because  ye  have  not  felt 
Distress  like  mine,  such  language  can  excuse. 
Chorus. — Thy  guiltless  children  wilt  thou  dare  to  slay? 
Medea. — My  husband  hence  more  deeply  shall  I  wound. 
Chorus. — But  thou  wilt  of  all  women  be  most  wretched. 
Medea. — No  matter :  all  the  counsels  ye  can  give 
Are  now  superfluous.    But  this  instant  go 
And  Jason  hither  bring ;  for  on  your  faith, 
In  all  things  I  depend ;  nor  these  resolves 
Will  you  divulge  if  you  your  mistress  love. 
And  feel  a  woman's  interest  in  my  wrongs. 
Chorus. — Heroes  of  Erectheus'  race. 

To  the  gods  who  owe  your  birth, 
And  in  a  long  succession  trace 
Your  sacred  origin  from  earth, 
Who  on  wisdom's  fruit  regale, 
Purest  breezes  still  inhale, 
And  behold  skies  ever  bright, 
Wandering  through  those  haunted  glades 
Where  fame  relates  that  the  Pierian  maids, 
Soothing  the  soul  of  man  with  chaste  delight. 
Taught  Harmony  to  breathe  her  first  enchanting  tale. 


MEDEA  117 

From  Cephisos'  amber  tide, 

At  the  Cyprian  queen's  command, 

As  sing  the  Muses,  are  suppHed 

To  refresh  the  thirsty  land. 

Fragrant  gales  of  temperate  air ; 

While  around  her  auburn  hair, 

In  a  vivid  chaplet  twined 

Never-fading  roses  bloom 
And  scent  the  champaign  with  their  rich  perfume, 
Love  comes  in  unison  with  wisdom  joined, 
Each  virtue  thrives  if  Beauty  lend  her  fostering  care. 

For  its  holy  streams  renowned 

Can  that  city,  can  that  state 
Where  friendship's  generous  train  are  found 
Shelter  thee  from  public  hate, 
When,  defiled  with  horrid  guilt. 
Thou  thy  children's  blood  hast  spilt? 
Think  on  this  atrocious  deed 
Ere  thy  dagger  aim  the  blow: 
Around  thy  knees  our  suppliant  arms  we  throw ; 
O  doom  not,  doom  them  not  to  bleed. 

How  can  thy  relentless  heart 
All  humanity  disclaim. 
Thy  lifted  arm  perform  its  part? 
Lost  to  a  sense  of  honest  shame, 
Canst  thou  take  their  lives  away, 
And  these  guiltless  children  slay? 
Soon  as  thou  thy  sons  shalt  view. 
How  wilt  thou  the  tear  restrain, 
Or  with  their  blood  thy  ruthless  hands  distain. 
When  prostrate  they  for  mercy  sue? 

Enter  Jason. 

Jason. — I  at  your  call  am  come ;  for  though  such  hate 
To  me  you  bear,  you  shall  not  be  denied 
In  this  request ;  but  let  me  hear  what  else 
You  would  solicit. 


ii8  EURIPIDES 

Medea. —  Jason,  I  of  thee 

Crave  pardon  for  the  hasty  words  I  spoke ; 

Since  just  it  were  that  thou  shouldst  bear  my  wrath, 

When  by  such  mutual  proofs  of  love  our  union 

Hath  been  cemented.    For  I  reasoned  thus, 

And  in  these  terms  reproached  myself :  "  O  wretch, 

Wretch  that  I  am,  what  madness  fires  my  breast? 

Or  why  'gainst  those  who  counsel  me  aright 

Such  fierce  resentment  harbor?    What  just  cause 

Have  I  to  hate  the  rulers  of  this  land. 

My  husband  too,  who  acts  but  for  my  good 

In  his  espousal  with  the  royal  maid, 

That  to  my  sons  he  hence  may  add  a  race 

Of  noble  brothers  ?    Shall  not  I  appease 

The  tempest  of  my  soul  ?    Why,  when  the  gods 

Confer  their  choicest  blessings,  should  I  grieve? 

Have  not  I  helpless  children?    Well  I  know 

That  we  are  banished  from  Thessalia's  realm 

And  left  without  a  friend."    When  I  these  thoughts 

Maturely  had  revolved,  I  saw  how  great 

My  folly  and  how  groundless  was  my  wrath. 

Now  therefore  I  commend,  now  deem  thee  wise 

In  forming  this  connection  for  my  sake : 

But  I  was  void  of  wisdom,  or  had  borne 

A  part  in  these  designs,  the  genial  bed 

Obsequiously  attended,  and  with  joy 

Performed  each  menial  office  for  the  bride. 

I  will  not  speak  in  too  reproachful  terms 

Of  my  own  sex ;  but  we,  weak  women,  are 

What  nature  formed  us ;  therefore  our  defects 

Thou  must  not  imitate,  nor  yet  return 

Folly  for  folly.    I  submit  and  own 

My  judgment  was  erroneous,  but  at  length 

Have  I  formed  better  counsels.    O  my  sons, 

Come  hither,  leave  the  palace,  from  those  doors 

Advance,  and  in  a  soft  persuasive  strain 

With  me  unite  your  father  to  accost. 

Forget  past  enmity,  and  to  your  friends 

Be  reconciled,  for  'twixt  us  is  a  league 

Of  peace  established,  and  my  wrath  subsides. 


MEDEA  119 

Enter  the  sons  of  Jason  and  Medea. 

Take  hold  of  his  right  hand.    Ah  me,  how  great 

Are  my  afflictions  oft  as  I  revolve 

A  deed  of  darkness  in  my  laboring  soul ! 

How  long,  alas !  my  sons,  are  ye  ordained 

To  live,  how  long  to  stretch  forth  those  dear  arms  ? 

Wretch  that  I  am !  how  much  am  I  disposed 

To  weep !  how  subject  to  each  fresh  alarm ! 

For  I  at  length  desisting  from  that  strife. 

Which  with  your  sire  I  rashly  did  maintain, 

Feel  gushing  tears  bedew  my  tender  cheek. 

Chorus. — Fresh  tears  too  from  these  eyes  have  forced  their 
way; 
And  may  no  greater  ill  than  that  which  now 
We  suffer,  overtake  us ! 

Jason. —  I  applaud 

Your  present  conduct,  and  your  former  rage 
Condemn  not ;  for  'tis  natural  that  the  race 
Of  women  should  be  angry  when  their  lord 
For  a  new  consort  trucks  them.    But  your  heart 
Is  for  the  better  changed,  and  you,  though  late, 
At  length  acknowledge  the  resistless  power 
Of  reason ;  this  is  acting  like  a  dame 
Endued  with  prudence.    But  for  you,  my  sons. 
Abundant  safety  your  considerate  sire 
Hath  with  the  favor  of  the  gods  procured. 
For  ye,  I  trust,  shall  with  my  future  race 
Bear  the  first  rank  in  this  Corinthian  realm, 
Advance  to  full  maturity ;  the  rest, 
Aided  by  each  benignant  god,  your  father 
Shall  soon  accomplish.    Virtuously  trained  up 
May  I  behold  you  at  a  riper  age 
Obtain  pre-eminence  o'er  those  I  hate. 
But,  ha !    Why  with  fresh  tears  do  you  thus  keep 
.  Those  eyelids  moist?    From  your  averted  cheeks 
Why  is  the  color  fled,  or  why  these  words 
Receive  you  not  with  a  complacent  ear? 

Medea. — Nothing :  my  thoughts  were  busied  for  these  children. 

Jason. — Be  of  good  courage,  and  for  them  depend 
On  my  protecting  care. 


I30  EURIPIDES 

Medea. —  I  will  obey, 

Nor  disbelieve  the  promise  thou  hast  made: 
But  woman,  ever  frail,  is  prone  to  shed 
Involuntary  tears. 

Jason. —  But  why  bewail 

With  such  deep  groans  these  children? 

Medea. —  Them  I  bore; 

And  that  our  sons  might  live,  while  to  the  gods 
Thou  didst  address  thy  vows,  a  pitying  thought 
Entered  my  soul ;  'twas  whether  this  could  be. 
But  of  th'  affairs  on  which  thou  com'st  to  hold 
This  conference  with  me,  have  I  told  a  part 
Already,  and  to  thee  will  now  disclose 
The  sequel :  since  the  rulers  of  this  land 
Resolve  to  banish  me,  as  well  I  know 
That  it  were  best  for  me  to  give  no  umbrage. 
Or  to  the  king  of  Corinth,  or  to  thee, 
By  dwelling  here :  because  I  to  this  house 
Seem  to  bear  enmity,  from  these  domains 
Will  I  depart :  but  urge  thy  suit  to  Creon, 
That  under  thy  paternal  care  our  sons 
May  be  trained  up,  nor  from  this  realm  expelled. 

Jason. — Though  doubtful  of  success,  I  yet  am  bound 
To  make  th'  attempt. 

Medea. —  Thou  rather  shouldst  enjoin 

Thy  bride  her  royal  father  to  entreat. 
That  he  these  children's  exile  may  reverse. 

Jason. — With  pleasure ;  and  I  doubt  not  but  on  her, 
If  like  her  sex  humane,  I  shall  prevail. 

Medea. — To  aid  thee  in  this  difficult  emprise 
Shall  be  my  care,  for  I  to  her  will  send 
Gifts  that  I  know  in  beauty  far  exceed 
The  gorgeous  works  of  man ;  a  tissued  vest 
And  golden  crown  the  children  shall  present, 
But  with  the  utmost  speed  these  ornaments 
One  of  thy  menial  train  must  hither  bring, 
For  not  with  one,  but  with  ten  thousand  blessings 
Shall  she  be  gratified ;  thee,  best  of  men, 
Obtaining  for  the  partner  of  her  bed, 
And  in  possession  of  those  splendid  robes 


MEDEA  lai 

Which  erst  the  sun  my  grandsire  did  bestow 
On  his  descendants :  take  them  in  your  hands. 
My  children,  to  the  happy  royal  bride 
Instantly  bear  them,  and  in  dower  bestow. 
For  such  a  gift  as  ought  not  to  be  scorned 
Shall  she  receive. 

Jason. —  Why  rashly  part  with  these? 

Of  tissued  robes  or  gold  can  you  suppose 
The  palace  destitute  ?    These  trappings  keep. 
Nor  to  another  give :  for  if  the  dame 
On  me  place  real  value,  well  I  know 
My  love  she  to  all  treasures  will  prefer. 

Medea. — Speak  not  so  hastily :  the  gods  themselves 

By  gifts  are  swayed,  as  fame  relates ;  and  gold 
Hath  a  far  greater  influence  o'er  the  souls 
Of  mortals  than  the  most  persuasive  words : 
With  fortune,  the  propitious  heavens  conspire 
To  add  fresh  glories  to  thy  youthful  bride. 
All  here  submits  to  her  despotic  sway. 
But  I  my  children's  exile  would  redeem, 
Though  at  the  cost  of  life,  not  gold  alone. 
But  these  adjacent  mansions  of  the  king 
Soon  as  ye  enter,  O  ye  little  ones, 
Your  sire's  new  consort  and  my  queen  entreat 
That  ye  may  not  be  banished  from  this  land: 
At  the  same  time  these  ornaments  present. 
For  most  important  is  it  that  these  gifts 
With  her  own  hands  the  royal  dame  receive. 
Go  forth,  delay  not,  and,  if  ye  succeed, 
Your  mother  with  the  welcome  tidings  greet. 

[Exeunt  Jason  and  Sons. 

Chorus. — Now  from  my  soul  each  hope  is  fled, 
I  deem  those  hapless  children  dead, 
They  rush  to  meet  the  wound : 
Mistrustful  of  no  latent  pest 
Th'  exulting  bride  will  seize  the  gorgeous  vest. 
Her  auburn  tresses  crowned 
By  baleful  Pluto,  shall  she  stand, 
And  take  the  presents  with  an  eager  hand. 


133  EURIPIDES 

The  splendid  robe  of  thousand  dyes 
Will  fascinate  her  raptured  eyes, 
And  tempt  her  till  she  wear 
The  golden  diadem,  arrayed 
To  meet  her  bridegroom  in  th'  infernal  shade 
She  thus  into  the  snare 
Of  death  shall  be  surprised  by  fate, 
Nor  'scape  remorseless  Ate's  direful  hate. 

But  as  for  thee  whose  nuptials  bring 
The  proud  alliance  of  a  king, 

'Midst  dangers  unespied 

Thou  madly  rushing,  aid'st  the  blow 

Ordained  by  Heaven  to  lay  thy  children  low. 

And  thy  lamented  bride: 

O  man,  how  little  dost  thou  know 

That  o'er  thy  head  impends  severest  woe  I 

Thy  anguish  I  no  less  bemoan. 
No  less  for  thee,  O  mother,  groan. 

Bent  on  a  horrid  deed. 
Thy  children  who  resolv'st  to  slay, 
Nor  fear'st  to  take  their  guiltless  lives  away. 
Those  innocents  must  bleed. 
Because,  disdainful  of  thy  charms, 
Thy  husband  flies  to  a  new  consort's  arms. 

Enter  Attendant  and  the  Sons  of  Ja^on  and  Medea. 

Attendant. — Your  sons,  my  honored  mistress,  are  set  free 

From  banishment ;  in  her  own  hands  those  gifts 

With  courtesy  the  royal  bride  received ; 

Hence  have  your  sons  obtained  their  peace. 
Medea.—  No  matter. 

Attendant. — Why  stand  you  in  confusion,  when  befriended 

By  prosperous  fortune? 
Medea. —  Ah ! 

Attendant.—  This  harsh  reception 

Accords  not  with  the  tidings  which  I  bring. 
Medea. — Alas !  and  yet  again  I  say,  alas ! 
Attendant. — Have  I  related  with  unconscious  tongue 


MEDEA  123 

Some  great  calamity,  by  the  fond  hope 

Of  bearing  glad  intelligence  misled? 
Medea. — For  having  told  what  thou  hast  told,  no  blame 

To  thee  do  I  impute. 
Attendant. —  But  on  the  ground 

Why  fix  those  eyes,  and  shed  abundant  tears  ? 
Medea. — Necessity  constrains  me:  for  the  gods 

Of  Erebus  and  I  in  evil  hour 

Our  baleful  machinations  have  devised. 
Attendant. — Be  of  good  cheer ;  for  in  your  children  still 

Are  you  successful. 
Medea. —  'Midst  the  realms  of  night 

Others  I  first  will  plunge.    Ah,  wretched  me ! 
Attendant. — Not  you  alone  are  from  your  children  torn. 

Mortal  you  are,  and  therefore  must  endure 

Calamity  with  patience. 
Medea. —  I  these  counsels 

Will  practise :  but  go  thou  into  the  palace, 

And  for  the  children  whatsoe'er  to-day 

Is  requisite,  make  ready.  [Exit  Attendant. 

O  my  sons! 

My  sons !  ye  have  a  city  and  a  house 

Where,  leaving  hapless  me  behind,  without 

A  mother  ye  forever  shall  reside. 

But  I  to  other  realms  an  exile  go. 

Ere  any  help  from  you  I  could  derive, 

Or  see  you  blest ;  the  hymeneal  pomp, 

The  bride,  the  genial  couch,  for  you  adorn. 

And  in  these  hands  the  kindled  torch  sustain. 

How  wretched  am  I  through  my  own  perverseness ! 

You,  O  my  sons,  I  then  in  vain  have  nurtured. 

In  vain  have  toiled,  and,  wasted  with  fatigue, 

Suffered  the  pregnant  matron's  grievous  throes. 

On  you,  in  my  afflictions,  many  hopes 

I  founded  erst :  that  ye  with  pious  care 

Would  foster  my  old  age,  and  on  the  bier 

Extend  me  after  death — much  envied  lot 

Of  mortals ;  but  these  pleasing  anxious  thoughts 

Are  vanished  now ;  for,  losing  you,  a  life 

Of  bitterness  and  anguish  shall  I  lead. 


114  EURIPIDES 

But  as  for  you,  my  sons,  with  those  dear  eyes 

Fated  no  more  your  mother  to  behold, 

Hence  are  ye  hastening  to  a  world  unknown. 

Why  do  ye  gaze  on  me  with  such  a  look 

Of  tenderness,  or  wherefore  smile?  for  these 

Are  your  last  smiles.    Ah  wretched,  wretched  me! 

What  shall  I  do  ?    My  resolution  fails. 

Sparkling  with  joy  now  I  their  looks  have  seen. 

My  friends,  I  can  no  more.    To  those  past  schemes 

I  bid  adieu,  and  with  me  from  this  land 

My  children  will  convey.    Why  should  I  cause 

A  twofold  portion  of  distress  to  fall 

On  my  own  head,  that  I  may  grieve  the  sire 

By  punishing  his  sons  ?    This  shall  not  be : 

Such  counsels  I  dismiss.    But  in  my  purpose 

What  means  this  change  ?    Can  I  prefer  derision. 

And  with  impunity  permit  the  foe 

To  'scape?    My  utmost  courage  I  must  rouse: 

For  the  suggestion  of  these  tender  thoughts 

Proceeds  from  an  enervate  heart.     My  sons. 

Enter  the  regal  mansion.  [Exeunt  Sons. 

As  for  those 
Who  deem  that  to  be  present  were  unholy 
While  I  the  destined  victims  offer  up. 
Let  them  see  to  it.    This  uplifted  arm 
Shall  never  shrink.    Alas!   alas!   my  soul 
Commit  not  such  a  deed.    Unhappy  woman, 
Desist  and  spare  thy  children ;  we  will  live 
Together,  they  in  foreign  realms  shall  cheer 
Thy  exile.    No,  by  those  avenging  fiends 
Who  dwell  with  Pluto  in  the  realms  beneath. 
This  shall  not  be,  nor  will  I  ever  leave 
My  sons  to  be  insulted  by  their  foes. 
They  certainly  must  die ;  since  then  they  must, 
I  bore  and  I  will  slay  them  :  'tis  a  deed 
Resolved  on,  nor  my  purpose  will  I  change. 
Full  well  I  know  that  now  the  royal  bride 
Wears  on  her  head  the  magic  diadem, 
And  in  the  variegated  robe  expires: 
But,  hurried  on  by  fate,  I  tread  a  path 


MEDEA 

Of  Utter  wretchedness,  and  them  will  plunge 
Into  one  yet  more  wretched.     To  my  sons 
Fain  would  I  say :  "  O  stretch  forth  your  right  hands. 
Ye  children,  for  your  mother  to  embrace, 
O  dearest  hands,  ye  lips  to  me  most  dear, 
Engaging  features  and  ingenuous  looks, 
May  ye  be  blest,  but  in  another  world ; 
For  by  the  treacherous  conduct  of  your  sire 
Are  ye  bereft  of  all  this  earth  bestowed. 
Farewell,  sweet  kisses — tender  limbs,  farewell! 
And  fragrant  breath !    I  never  more  can  bear 
To  look  on  you,  my  children."    My  afflictions 
Have  conquered  me ;  I  now  am  well  aware 
What  crimes  I  venture  on :  but  rage,  the  cause 
Of  woes  most  grievous  to  the  human  race. 
Over  my  better  reason  hath  prevailed. 
Chorus. — In  subtle  questions  I  full  many  a  time 

Have  heretofore  engaged,  and  this  great  point 

Debated,  whether  woman  should  extend 

Her  search  into  abstruse  and  hidden  truths. 

But  we  too  have  a  Muse,  who  with  our  sex 

Associates  to  expound  the  mystic  lore 

Of  wisdom,  though  she  dwell  not  with  us  all. 

Yet  haply  a  small  number  may  be  found. 

Among  the  multitude  of  females,  dear 

To  the  celestial  Muses.    I  maintain. 

They  who  in  total  inexperience  live, 

Nor  ever  have  been  parents,  are  more  happy 

Than  they  to  whom  much  progeny  belongs. 

Because  the  childless,  having  never  tried 

Whether  more  pain  or  pleasure  from  their  offspring 

To  mortals  rises,  'scape  unnumbered  toils. 

But  I  observe  that  they,  whose  fruitful  house 

Is  with  a  lovely  race  of  infants  filled. 

Are  harassed  with  perpetual  cares ;  how  first 

To  train  them  up  in  virtue,  and  whence  leave 

Fit  portions  for  their  sons ;  but  on  the  good 

Or  worthless,  whether  they  these  toils  bestow 

Remains  involved  in  doubt.     I  yet  must  name 

One  evil  the  most  grievous,  to  which  all 


125 


ia6  EURIPIDES 

The  human  race  is  subject;  some  there  are 
Who  for  their  sons  have  gained  sufficient  wealth. 
Seen  them  to  full  maturity  advance, 
And  decked  vi^ith  every  virtue,  v^^hen,  by  fate 
If  thus  it  be  ordained,  comes  death  unseen 
And  hurries  them  to  Pluto's  gloomy  realm. 
Can  it  be  any  profit  to  the  gods 
To  heap  the  loss  of  children,  that  one  ill 
Than  all  the  rest  more  bitter,  on  mankind? 
Medea. — My  friends,  with  anxious  expectation  long 
Here  have  I  waited,  from  within  to  learn 
How  fortune  will  dispose  the  dread  event. 
But  one  of  Jason's  servants  I  behold 
With  breathless  speed  advancing :  his  looks  show 
That  he  some  recent  mischief  would  relate. 

Enter  Messenger. 

Messenger. — O  thou,  who  impiously  hast  wrought  a  deed 

Of  horror,  fly,  Medea,  from  this  land, 

Fly  with  such  haste  as  not  to  leave  the  bark 

Or  from  the  car  alight. 
Medea. —  What  crime,  to  merit 

A  banishment  like  this,  have  I  committed? 
Messenger. — By  thy  enchantments  is  the  royal  maid 

This  instant  dead,  and  Creon,  too,  her  sire. 
Medea. — Most  glorious  are  the  tidings  you  relate : 

Henceforth  shall  you  be  numbered  with  my  friends 

And  benefactors. 
Messenger. —  Ha!    what  words  are  these? 

Dost  thou  preserve  thy  senses  yet  entire? 

O  woman,  hath  not  madness  fired  thy  brain? 

The  wrongs  thou  to  the  royal  house  hast  done 

Hear'st  thou  with  joy,  nor  shudder'st  at  the  tale? 
Medea. — Somewhat  I  have  in  answer  to  your  speech: 

But  be  not  too  precipitate,  my  friend ; 

Inform  me  how  they  died,  for  twofold  joy 

Wilt  thou  afiford,  if  wretchedly  they  perished. 
Messenger. — When  with  their  father  thy  two  sons  arrived 

And  went  into  the  mansion  of  the  bride, 

We  servants,  who  had  shared  thy  griefs,  rejoiced ; 


MEDEA  127 

For  a  loud  rumor  instantly  prevailed 

That  all  past  strife  betwixt  thy  lord  and  thee 

'Was  reconciled.    Some  kissed  the  children's  hands, 

And  some  their  auburn  tresses.    I  with  joy 

To  those  apartments  where  the  women  dwell 

Attended  them.    Our  mistress,  the  new  object 

Of  homage  such  as  erst  to  thee  was  paid, 

Ere  she  beheld  thy  sons  on  Jason  cast 

A  look  of  fond  desire :  but  then  she  veiled 

Her  eyes,  and  turned  her  pallid  cheeks  away 

Disgusted  at  their  coming,  till  his  voice 

Appeased  her  anger  with  these  gentle  words: 

"  O  be  not  thou  inveterate  'gainst  thy  friends, 

But  lay  aside  disdain,  thy  beauteous  face 

Turn  hither,  and  let  amity  for  those 

Thy  husband  loves  still  warm  that  generous  breast. 

Accept  these  gifts,  and  to  thy  father  sue. 

That,  for  my  sake,  the  exile  of  my  sons 

He  will  remit."    Soon  as  the  princess  saw 

Thy  glittering  ornaments,  she  could  resist 

No  longer,  but  to  all  her  lord's  requests 

Assented,  and  before  thy  sons  were  gone 

Far  from  the  regal  mansion  with  their  sire. 

The  vest,  resplendent  with  a  thousand  dyes, 

Put  on,  and  o'er  her  loosely  floating  hair 

Placing  the  golden  crown,  before  the  mirror 

Her  tresses  braided,  and  with  smiles  surveyed 

Th'  inanimated  semblance  of  her  charms : 

Then  rising  from  her  seat  across  the  palace 

Walked  with  a  delicate  and  graceful  step, 

In  the  rich  gifts  exulting,  and  oft  turned 

Enraptured  eyes  on  her  own  stately  neck, 

Pveflected  to  her  view :  but  now  a  scene 

Of  horror  followed  ;  her  complexion  changed. 

And  she  reeled  backward,  trembling  every  limb; 

Scarce  did  her  chair  receive  her  as  she  sunk 

In  time  to  save  her  falling  to  the  ground. 

One  of  her  menial  train,  an  aged  dame, 

Possest  with  an  idea  that  the  wrath 

Either  of  Pan  or  of  some  god  unknown 


ia8  EURIPIDES 

Her  mistress  had  invaded,  in  shrill  tone 

Poured  forth  a  vow  to  Heaven,  till  from  her  mouth 

She  saw  foam  issue,  in  their  sockets  roll 

Her  wildly  glaring  eyeballs,  and  the  blood 

Leave  her  whole  frame ;  a  shriek,  that  differed  far 

From  her  first  plaints,  then  gave  she.    In  an  instant 

This  to  her  father's  house,  and  that  to  tell 

The  bridegroom  the  mischance  which  had  befallen 

His  consort,  rushed  impetuous ;  through  the  dome 

The  frequent  steps  of  those  who  to  and  fro 

Ran  in  confusion  did  resound.    But  soon 

As  the  fleet  courser  at  the  goal  arrives. 

She  who  was  silent,  and  had  closed  her  eyes. 

Roused  from  her  swoon,  and  burst  forth  into  groans 

Most  dreadful,  for  'gainst  her  two  evils  warred: 

Placed  on  her  head  the  golden  crown  poured  forth 

A  wondrous  torrent  of  devouring  flames, 

And  the  embroidered  robes,  thy  children's  gifts. 

Preyed  on  the  hapless  virgin's  tender  flesh ; 

Covered  with  fire  she  started  from  her  seat 

Shaking  her  hair,  and  from  her  head  the  crown 

With  violence  attempting  to  remove, 

But  still  more  firmly  did  the  heated  gold 

Adhere,  and  the  fanned  blaze  with  double  lustre 

Burst  forth  as  she  her  streaming  tresses  shook : 

Subdued  by  fate,  at  length  she  to  the  ground 

Fell  prostrate :  scarce  could  anyone  have  known  her 

Except  her  father ;  for  those  radiant  eyes 

Dropped  from  their  sockets,  that  majestic  face 

Its  wonted  features  lost,  and  blood  with  fire 

Ran  down  her  head  in  intermingled  streams. 

While  from  her  bones  the  flesh,  like  weeping  pitch. 

Melted  away,  through  the  consuming  power 

Of  those  unseen  enchantments ;  'twas  a  sight 

Most  horrible :  all  feared  to  touch  the  corpse, 

For  her  disastrous  end  had  taught  us  caution. 

Meanwhile  her  hapless  sire,  who  knew  not  aught 

Of  this  calamity,  as  he  with  haste 

Entered  the  palace,  stumbled  o'er  her  body; 

Instantly  shrieking  out,  then  with  his  arms 


MEDEA 


129 


Infolded,  kissed  it  oft,  and,  "  O  my  child, 

My  wretched  child,"  exclaimed ;   "  what  envious  god. 

Author  of  thy  dishonorable  fall. 

Of  thee  bereaves  an  old  decrepit  man 

Whom  the  grave  claims?    With  thee  I  wish  to  die, 

My  daughter."    Scarcely  had  the  hoary  father 

These  lamentations  ended ;  to  uplift 

His  feeble  body  striving,  he  adhered 

(As  ivy  with  its  pliant  tendrils  clings 

Around  the  laurel)  to  the  tissued  vest. 

Dire  was  the  conflict ;  he  to  raise  his  knee 

From  earth  attempted,  but  his  daughter's  corse 

Still  held  him  down,  or  if  with  greater  force 

He  dragged  it  onward,  from  his  bones  he  tore 

The  aged  flesh :   at  length  he  sunk,  and  breathed 

In  agonizing  pangs  his  soul  away ; 

For  he  against  such  evil  could  bear  up 

No  longer.    To  each  other  close  in  death 

The  daughter  and  her  father  lie:  their  fate 

Demands  our  tears.    Warned  by  my  words,  with  haste 

From  this  domain  convey  thyself,  or  vengeance 

Will  overtake  thee  for  this  impious  deed. 

Not  now  for  the  first  time  do  I  esteem 

Human  affairs  a  shadow.    Without  fear 

Can  I  pronounce,  they  who  appear  endued 

With  wisdom,  and  most  plausibly  trick  out 

Specious  harangues,  deserve  to  be  accounted 

The  worst  of  fools.    The  man  completely  blest 

Exists  not.     Some  in  overflowing  wealth 

May  be  more  fortunate,  but  none  are  happy. 

Chorus. — Heaven  its  collected  store  of  evil  seems 
This  day  resolved  with  justice  to  pour  down 
On  perjured  Jason.    Thy  untimely  fate 
How  do  we  pity,  O  thou  wretched  daughter 
Of  Creon,  who  in  Pluto's  mansions  go'st 
To  celebrate  thy  nuptial  feast. 

Medea. —  My  friends, 

I  am  resolved,  as  soon  as  I  have  slain 
My  children,  from  these  regions  to  depart, 
Nor  through  inglorious  sloth  will  I  abandon 


Ijo  EURIPIDES 

My  sons  to  perish  by  detested  hands ; 

They  certainly  must  die ;  since  then  they  must, 

I  bore  and  I  will  slay  them.    O  my  heart ! 

Be  armed  with  tenfold  firmness.    What  avails  it 

To  loiter,  when  inevitable  ills 

Remain  to  be  accomplished?    Take  the  sword, 

And,  O  my  hand,  on  to  the  goal  that  ends 

Their  life,  nor  let  one  intervening  thought 

Of  pity  or  maternal  tenderness 

Suspend  thy  purpose :  for  this  one  short  day 

Forget  how  fondly  thou  didst  love  thy  sons, 

How  bring  them  forth,  and  after  that  lament 

Their  cruel  fate:    although  thou  art  resolved 

To  slay,  yet  hast  thou  ever  held  them  dear. 

But  I  am  of  all  women  the  most  wretched. 

[Exit  Medea, 
Chorus. —     Earth,  and  thou  sun,  whose  fervid  blaze 
From  pole  to  pole  illumes  each  distant  land. 
View  this  abandoned  woman,  ere  she  raise 
Against  her  children's  lives  a  ruthless  hand ; 

For  from  thy  race,  divinely  bright, 
They  spring,  and  should  the  sons  of  gods  be  slain 

By  man,  'twere  dreadful.    O  restrain 
Her  fury,  thou  celestial  source  of  light. 
Ere  she  with  blood  pollute  your  regal  dome, 
Chased  by  the  demons  hence  let  this  Erinyes  roam. 

The  pregnant  matron's  throes  in  vain 
Hast  thou  endured,  and  borne  a  lovely  race, 
O  thou,  who  o'er  th'  inhospitable  main. 
Where  the  Cyanean  rocks  scarce  leave  a  space. 

Thy  daring  voyage  didst  pursue. 
Why,  O  thou  wretch,  thy  soul  doth  anger  rend, 

Such  as  in  murder  soon  must  end  ? 
They  who  with  kindred  gore  are  stained  shall  rue 
Their  guilt  inexpiable :   full  well  I  know 
The  gods  will  on  this  house  inflict  severest  woe. 

1st  Son  [within]. — Ah  me!  what  can  I  do,  or  whither  fly 
To  'scape  a  mother's  arm? 


MEDEA  1 51 

2nd  Son  [within]. —  I  cannot  tell: 

For,  O  my  dearest  brother,  we  are  lost. 

Chorus. — Heard  you  the  children's  shrieks?    I  (O  thou  dame, 
Whom  woes  and  evil  fortune  still  attend) 
Will  rush  into  the  regal  dome,  from  death 
Resolved  to  snatch  thy  sons. 

1st  Son  [within]. —  We  by  the  gods 

Conjure  you  to  protect  us  in  this  hour 
Of  utmost  peril,  for  the  treacherous  snare 
Hath  caught  us,  and  we  perish  by  the  sword. 

Chorus. — Art  thou  a  rock,  O  wretch,  or  steel,  to  slay 
With  thine  own  hand  that  generous  race  of  sons 
Whom  thou  didst  bear  ?    I  hitherto  have  heard 
But  of  one  woman,  who  in  ancient  days 
Smote  her  dear  children,  Ino,  by  the  gods 
With  frenzy  stung,  when  Jove's  malignant  queen 
Distracted  from  her  mansion  drove  her  forth. 
But  she,  yet  reeking  with  the  impious  gore 
Of  her  own  progeny,  into  the  waves 
Plunged  headlong  from  the  ocean's  craggy  beach, 
And  shared  with  her  two  sons  one  common  fate. 
Can  there  be  deeds  more  horrible  than  these 
Left  for  succeeding  ages  to  produce  ? 
Disastrous  union  with  the  female  sex, 
How  great  a  source  of  woes  art  thou  to  man ! 

Enter  Jason. 

Jason. — Ye  dames  who  near  th*^  portals  stand,  is  she 
Who  hath  committed  these  atrocious  crimes, 
Medea,  in  the  palace,  or  by  flight 
Hath  she  retreated  ?    For  beneath  the  ground 
Must  she  conceal  herself,  or,  borne  on  wings, 
Ascend  the  heights  of  ^ther,  to  avoid 
The  vengeance  due  for  Corinth's  royal  house. 
Having  destroyed  the  rulers  of  the  land. 
Can  she  presume  she  shall  escape  unhurt 
From  these  abodes  ?    But  less  am  I  concerned 
On  ner  account,  than  for  my  sons ;  since  they 
Whom  she  hath  injured  will  on  her  inflict 
Due  punishment :  but  hither  am  I  come 


133 


EURIPIDES 


To  save  my  children's  lives,  lest  on  their  heads 

The  noble  Creon's  kindred  should  retaliate 

That  impious  murder  by  their  mother  wrought. 
Chorus. — Thou  know'st  not  yet,  O  thou  unhappy  man, 

What  ills  thou  art  involved  in,  or  these  words 

Had  not  escaped  thee. 
Jason. —  Ha,  what  ills  are  these 

Thou  speak'st  of?    Would  she  also  murder  me? 
Chorus. — By  their  own  mother's  hand  thy  sons  are  slain. 
Jason. — What  can  you  mean  ?    How  utterly,  O  woman, 

Have  you  undone  me ! 
Chorus. —  Be  assured  thy  children 

Are  now  no  more. 
Jason. —  Where  was  it,  or  within 

Those  mansions  or  without,  that  she  destroyed 

Our  progeny  ? 
Chorus. —  As  soon  as  thou  these  doors 

Hast  oped,  their  weltering  corses  wilt  thou  view. 
Jason. — Loose  the  firm  bars  and  bolts  of  yonder  gates 

With  speed,  ye  servants,  that  I  may  behold 

This  scene  of  twofold  misery,  the  remains 

Of  the  deceased,  and  punish  her  who  slew  them. 

Enter  Medea,  in  a  chariot  drawn  by  dragons. 

Medea. — With  levers  wherefore  dost  thou  shake  those  doors 
In  quest  of  them  who  are  no  more,  and  me 
Who  dared  to  perpetrate  the  bloody  deed  ? 
Desist  from  such  unprofitable  toil : 
But  if  there  yet  be  aught  that  thou  with  me 
Canst  want,  speak  freely  whatsoe'er  thou  wilt : 
For  with  that  hand  me  never  shalt  thou  reach, 
Such  steeds  the  sun  my  grandsire  gives  to  whirl 
This  chariot  and  protect  me  from  my  foes. 

Jason. — O  most  abandoned  woman,  by  the  gods. 
By  me  and  all  the  human  race  abhorred, 
Who  with  the  sword  could  pierce  the  sons  you  bore, 
And  ruin  me,  a  childless  wretched  man. 
Yet  after  you  this  impious  deed  have  dared 
To  perpetrate,  still  view  the  radiant  sun 
And  fostering  earth ;  may  vengeance  overtake  you ! 


MEDEA  133 

For  I  that  reason  have  regained  which  erst 
Forsook  me,  when  to  the  abodes  of  Greece 
I  from  your  home,  from  a  barbarian  realm, 
Conveyed  you,  to  your  sire  a  grievous  bane. 
And  the  corrupt  betrayer  of  that  land 
Which  nurtured  you.    Some  envious  god  first  roused 
Your  evil  genius  from  the  shades  of  hell 
For  my  undoing :  after  you  had  slain 
Your  brother  at  the  altar,  you  embarked 
In  the  famed  Argo.    Deeds  like  these  a  life 
Of  guilt  commenced ;  with  me  in  wedlock  joined. 
You  bore  those  sons,  whom  you  have  now  destroyed 
Because  I  left  your  bed.    No  Grecian  dame 
Would  e'er  have  ventured  on  a  deed  so  impious; 
Yet  I  to  them  preferred  you  for  my  bride : 
This  was  a  hostile  union,  and  to  me 
The  most  destructive ;  for  my  arms  received 
No  woman,  but  a  lioness  more  fell 
Than  Tuscan  Scylla.    Vainly  should  I  strive 
To  wound  you  with  reproaches  numberless, 
For  you  are  grown  insensible  of  shame ! 
Vile  sorceress,  and  polluted  with  the  blood 
Of  your  own  children,  perish — my  hard  fate 
While  I  lament,  for  I  shall  ne'er  enjoy 
My  lovely  bride,  nor  with  those  sons,  who  owe 
To  me  their  birth  and  nurture,  ever  hold 
Sweet  converse.    They,  alas !  can  live  no  more. 
Utterly  lost  to  their  desponding  sire. 
Medea. — Much  could  I  say  in  answer  to  this  charge. 
Were  not  the  benefits  from  me  received. 
And  thy  abhorred  ingratitude,  well-known 
To  Jove,  dread  sire.    Yet  was  it  not  ordained. 
Scorning  my  bed,  that  thou  shouldst  lead  a  life 
Of  fond  delight,  and  ridicule  my  griefs ; 
Nor  that  the  royal  virgin  thou  didst  wed, 
Or  Creon,  who  to  thee  his  daughter  gave, 
Should  drive  me  from  these  regions  unavenged. 
A  lioness  then  call  me  if  thou  wilt. 
Or  by  the  name  of  Scylla,  whose  abode 
Was  in  Etrurian  caverns.    For  thy  heart. 
As  justice  prompted,  in  my  turn  I  wounded. 


X34 


EURIPTDES 


Jason. — You  grieve,  and  are  the  partner  of  my  woes. 

Medea. — Be  well  assured  1  am :  but  what  assuages 

My  grief  is  this,  that  thou  no  more  canst  scoff. 

Jason. — How  vile  a  mother,  O  my  sons,  was  yours ! 

Medea. — How  did  ye  perish  through  your  father's  lust! 

Jason. — But  my  right  hand  was  guiltless  of  their  death. 

Medea. — Not  so  thy  cruel  taunts,  and  that  new  marriage. 

Jason. — Was  my  new  marriage  a  sufficient  cause 
For  thee  to  murder  them  ? 

Medea. —  Canst  thou  suppose 

Such  wrongs  sit  light  upon  the  female  breast  ? 

Jason. — On  a  chaste  woman's ;  but  your  soul  abounds 
With  wickedness. 

Medea. —  Thy  sons  are  now  no  more. 

This  will  afflict  thee. 

Jason. —  O'er  your  head,  alas ! 

They  now  two  evil  geniuses  impend. 

Medea. — The  gods  know  who  these  ruthless  deeds  began. 

Jason. — They  know  the  hateful  temper  of  your  soul. 

Medea. — In  detestation  thee  I  hold,  and  loathe 
Thy  conversation. 

Jason. —  Yours  too  I  abhor ; 

But  we  with  ease  may  settle  on  what  terms 
To  part  forever. 

Medea. —  Name  those  terms.    Say  how 

Shall  I  proceed  ?    For  such  my  ardent  wish. 

Jason. — Let  me  inter  the  dead,  and  o'er  them  weep. 

Medea. — Thou  shalt  not.    For  their  corses  with  this  hand 
Am  I  resolved  to  bury  in  the  grove 
Sacred  to  awful  Juno,  who  protects 
The  citadel  of  Corinth,  lest  their  foes 
Insult  them,  and  with  impious  rage  pluck  up 
The  monumental  stone.    I  in  this  realm 
Of  Sisyphos  moreover  will  ordain 
A  solemn  festival  and  mystic  rites. 
To  make  a  due  atonement  for  my  guilt 
In  having  slain  them.    To  Erectheus'  land 
I  now  am  on  my  road,  where  I  shall  dwell 
With  ^geus,  great  Pandion's  son ;  but  thou 
Shalt  vilely  perish  as  thy  crimes  deserve. 


MEDEA  135 

Beneath  the  shattered  relics  of  thy  bark, 

The  Argo,  crushed ;  such  is  the  bitter  end 

Of  our  espousals  and  thy  faith  betrayed, 
Jason. — May  the  Erinyes  of  our  slaughtered  sons, 

And  justice,  who  requites  each  murderous  deed, 

Destroy  you  utterly ! 
Medea. —  Will  any  god 

Or  demon  hear  thy  curses,  O  thou  wretch, 

False  to  thy  oath,  and  to  the  sacred  laws 

Of  hospitality  ? 
Jason. —  Most  impious  woman, 

Those  hands  yet  reeking  with  your  children's  gore — 
Medea. — Gk)  to  the  palace,  and  inter  thy  bride. 
Jason. — Bereft  of  both  my  sons,  I  thither  go. 
Medea. — Not  yet  enough  lament'st  thou :  to  increase 

Thy  sorrows,  may'st  thou  live  till  thou  art  old! 
Jason. — Ye  dearest  children. 
Medea. —  To  their  mother  dear, 

But  not  to  thee. 
Jason. —  Yet  them  have  you  destroyed. 

Medea. — That  I  might  punish  thee. 
Jason. —  One  more  fond  kiss 

On  their  loved  lips,  ah  me !  would  I  imprint. 
Medea. — Now  wouldst  thou  speak  to  them,  and  in  thine  arms 

Clasp  those  whom  living  thou  didst  banish  hence. 
Jason. — Allow  me,  I  conjure  you  by  the  gods, 

My  children's  tender  bodies  to  embrace. 
Medea. — Thou  shalt  not :  these  presumptuous  words  in  vain 

By  thee  were  hazarded. 
Jason. —  Jove,  hear'st  thou  this, 

How  I  with  scorn  am  driven  away,  how  wronged 

By  that  detested  lioness,  whose  fangs 

Have  slain  her  children?    Yet  shall  my  loud  plaints, 

While  here  I  fix  my  seat,  if  'tis  allowed, 

And  this  be  possible,  call  down  the  gods 

To  witness  that  you  hinder  me  from  touching 

My  murdered  sons,  and  paying  the  deceased 

Funereal  honors.    Would  to  Heaven  I  ne'er 

Had  seen  them  born  to  perish  by  your  hand  ! 
Chorus. — Throned  on  Olympos,  with  his  sovereign  nod, 

Classics.     Vol.  .?« — G 


136  EURIPIDES 

Jove  unexpectedly  performs  the  schemes 

Divine  foreknowledge  planned ;  our  firmest  hopes 

Oft  fail  us :  but  the  god  still  finds  the  means 

Of  compassing  what  man  could  ne'er  have  looked  for  J 

And  thus  doth  this  important  business  end. 


THE    KNIGHTS 

BY 

ARISTOPHANES 
[Metrical  Translation  by  John  Hookham  Frere] 


DRAMATIS   PERSONJE 

Demus. — A  personification  of  the  Athenian  people,  a  quarrel- 
some, selfish,  suspicious  old  man,  a  tyrant  to  his  slaves, 
with  the  exception  of  one,  the  Paphlagonian,  Cleon,  by 
whom  he  is  cajoled  and  deceived. 

NiciAS  and  Demosthenes. — Two  most  able  generals  of  Athens, 
of  very  opposite  characters ;  the  one  cautious  and  super- 
stitious ;  the  other  a  hearty,  resolute,  jolly  fellow,  who 
loves  good  wine.  These  two,  the  servants  of  the  public, 
are  naturally  introduced  as  the  slaves  of  Demus. 

Cleon. — ^The  Tanner  (as  he  is  called  from  his  property  con- 
sisting in  a  leather  manufactory),  or  the  Paphlagonian. 
He  is  represented  as  a  fawning,  obsequious  slave,  inso- 
lent and  haughty  to  all  except  his  master. 

A  Sausage-Seller,  whose  name,  Agoracritus,  is  not  declared 
till  towards  the  conclusion  of  the  play,  is  the  person  an- 
nounced by  the  Oracle  as  ordained  by  fate  to  baffle  Cleon, 
and  to  supersede  him  in  the  favor  of  his  master. 

Chorus. 


THE   KNIGHTS 

After  a  noise  of  lashes  and  screams  front  behind  the  scenes, 
Demosthenes  comes  out,  and  is  followed  by  Nicias,  the 
supposed  victim  of  Hagellation  {both  in  the  dress  of 
slaves).  Demosthenes  breaks  out  in  great  wrath;  while 
Nicias  remains  exhibiting  various  contortions  of  pain 
for  the  amusement  of  the  audience. 

Demosthenes. — Out!    out  alas!    what   a   scandal!    what  a 
shame ! 
May  Jove  in  his  utter  wrath  crush  and  confound 
That  rascally  new-bought  Paphlagonian  slave  I 
For  from  the  very  first  day  that  he  came — 
Brought  here  for  a  plague  and  a  mischief  amongst  us  all, 
We're  beaten  and  abused  continually. 
Nicias  [whimpering  in  a  broken  voice]. — I  say  so  too,  with 
all  my  heart  I  do, 
A  rascal,  with  his  slanders  and  lies ! 
A  rascally  Paphlagonian !   so  he  is ! 
Demosthenes  [roughly  and  good-humoredly]. — How  are  you, 

my  poor  soul  ? 
Nicias  [pettishly  and  whining] . — Why  poorly  enough ; 
And  so  are  you  for  that  matter. 

[Nicias  continues  writhing  and  moaning. 
Demosthenes  [as  if  speaking  to  a  child  that  had  hurt  himself]. 

Well,  come  here  then  1 
Come,  and  we'll  cry  together,  both  of  us. 
We'll  sing  it  to  Olympos's  old  tune. 
Both    [Demosthenes  accompanies  Nicias's   involuntary  sobs, 
so  as  to  make  a  tune  of  them]. 
Mo  moo  momoo — momoo  momoo — Momoo  momoo. 
Demosthenes  [suddoily  and  heartily]. — Come,  grief's  no  use 
— It's  folly  to  keep  crying. 
Let's  look  about  us  a  bit,  what's  best  to  be  done. 
139 


t40 


ARISTOPHANES 


NiciAS    [recovering   himself]. — Aye,  tell   me;   what   do  you 

think  ? 
Demosthenes, —  No,  you  tell  me — 

Lest  we  should  disagree. 
NiciAS. —  That's  what  I  won't ! 

Do  you  speak  boldly  first,  and  I'll  speak  next. 
Demosthenes  [significantly,  as  quoting  a  well-known  verse]. 

"  You  first  might  utter,  what  I  wish  to  tell."  * 
NiciAS. — Aye,  but  I'm  so  down-hearted,  I've  not  spirit 

To  bring  about  the  avowal  cleverly. 

In  Euripides's  style,  by  question  and  answer. 
Demosthenes. — Well,  then,  don't  talk  of  Euripides  any  more. 

Or  his  mother  either ;   don't  stand  picking  endive :  * 

But  think  of  something  in  another  style, 

To  the  tune  of  "  Trip  and  away." 
NiciAS. —  Yes,  I'll  contrive  it : 

Say  "  Let  us  "  first ;  put  the  first  letter  to  it, 

And  then  the  last,  and  then  put  E,  R,  T. 
"  Let  us  A  zert."    I  say,  "  Let  us  Azert." 

'Tis  now  your  turn — take  the  next  letter  to  it. 

Put  B  for  A. 
Demosthenes. —        "  Let  us  Bezert,"  I  say — 
NiciAS. — 'Tis  now  my  turn — "  Let  us  Cezert,"  I  say. 

'Tis  now  your  turn. 
Demosthenes. —  "  Let  us  Dezert,**  I  say. 

NiciAS. — You've  said  it ! — and  I  agree  to  it — now  repeat  it 

Once  more ! 
Demosthenes. —      Let  us  Dezert!    Let  us  Dezert! 
NiciAS.— That's  well. 
Demosthenes. —  But  somehow  it  seems  unlucky,  rather 

An  awkward  omen  to  meet  with  in  a  morning ! 
"  To  meet  with  our  deserts !  " 
NiciAS. —  That's  very  true; 

Therefore,  I  think,  in  the  present  state  of  things. 

The  best  thing  for  us  both,  would  be,  to  go 

Directly  to  the  shrine  of  one  of  the  gods ; 

And  pray  for  mercy,  both  of  us  together. 

»From    the    tragedy    of    "Phaedra:"  « His  mother  was  said  to  have  been 

she  is  trying  to  lead  her  nurse  to  men-        a  herb  woman, 
tion  the  name  of  Hippolytus,  while  she 
avoids  it  herself. 


THE  KNIGHTS  141 

Demosthenes. — Shrines!   shrines!    Why  sure,  you  don't  be- 
lieve in  the  gods. 

NiciAS. — I  do. 

Demosthenes. — But  what's  your  argument?     Where's  your 
proof  ? 

NiciAS. — Because  I  feel  they  persecute  me  and  hate  me, 
In  spite  of  everything  I  try  to  please  'em. 

Demosthenes. — Well,  well.    That's  true;  you^ re  right  enough 
in  that. 

NiciAS. — Let's  settle  something. 

Demosthenes. —  Come,  then — if  you  like 

I'll  state  our  case  at  once,  to  the  audience  here. 

NiCiAS. — It  would  not  be  much  amiss ;  but  first  of  all, 
We  must  entreat  of  them ;  if  the  scene  and  action 
Have  entertained  them  hitherto,  to  declare  it, 
And  encourage  us  with  a  little  applause  beforehand. 

Demosthenes  [to  the  audience]. — Well,  come  now!    I'll  tell 
ye  about  it.    Here  are  we 
A  couple  of  servants,  with  a  master  at  home 
Next  door  to  the  hustings.    He's  a  man  in  years, 
A  kind  of  a  bean-fed  ^  husky  testy  character. 
Choleric  and  brutal  at  times,  and  partly  deaf. 
It's  near  about  a  month  now,  that  he  went 
And  bought  a  slave  out  of  a  tanner's  yard, 
A  Paphlagonian  born,  and  brought  him  home. 
As  wicked  a  slanderous  wretch  as  ever  lived. 
This  fellow,  the  Paphlagonian,  has  found  out 
The  blind  side  of  our  master's  understanding, 
With  fawning  and  wheedling  in  this  kind  of  way : 
**  Would  not  you  please  to  go  to  the  bath,  Sir  ?  surely 
It's  not  worth  while  to  attend  the  courts  to-day."  * 
And,  "  Would  not  you  please  to  take  a  little  refreshment? 
And  there's  that  nice  hot  broth — And  here's  the  three- 
pence 
You  left  behind  you — And  would  not  you  order  supper?  ** 
Moreover,  when  we  get  things  out  of  compliment 
As  a  present  for  our  master,  he  contrives 
To  snatch  'em  and  serve  'em  up  before  our  faces. 
I'd  made  a  Spartan  cake  at  Pylos  lately, 

•  In   allusion   to   the   beans    used   in  *  Sacrifices,  with  distribution  of  mesit, 

balloting.  and  largesses  to  the  people  on  holidays. 


142  ARISTOPHANES 

And  mixed  and  kneaded  it  well,  and  watched  the  baking ; 
But  he  stole  round  before  me  and  served  it  up: 
And  he  never  allows  us  to  come  near  our  master 
To  speak  a  word ;   but  stands  behind  his  back 
At  meal  times,  with  a  monstrous  leathern  fly-flap, 
Slapping  and  whisking  it  round  and  rapping  us  off. 

Sometimes  the  old  man  falls  into  moods  and  fancies. 
Searching  the  prophecies  till  he  gets  bewildered ; 
And  then  the  Paphlagonian  plies  him  up, 
Driving  him  mad  with  oracles  and  predictions. 
And  that's  his  harvest.    Then  he  slanders  us, 
And  gets  us  beaten  and  lashed,  and  goes  his  rounds 
Bullying  in  this  way,  to  squeeze  presents  from  us : 
*'  You  saw  what  a  lashing  Hylas  got  just  now; 
You'd  best  make  friends  with  me,  if  you  love  your  lives. 
Why  then,  we  give  him  a  trifle,  or  if  we  don't. 
We  pay  for  it ;  for  the  old  fellow  knocks  us  down. 
And  kicks  us  on  the  ground,  and  stamps  and  rages. 
And  tramples  out  the  very  entrails  of  us — 

[Turning  to  Nicias. 
So  now,  my  worthy  fellow ;   we  must  take 
A  fixed  determination  ;   now's  the  time. 
Which  way  to  turn  ourselves  and  what  to  do. 

Nicias. — Our  last  determination  was  the  best : 

That  which  we  settled  to  A'  Be  Ce  Desert. 

Demosthenes. — Aye,  but  we  could  not  escape  the  Paphla- 
gonian, 
He  overlooks  us  all ;  he  keeps  one  foot 
In  Pylos,  and  another  in  the  Assembly ; 
And  stands  with  such  a  stature,  stride  and  grasp ; 
That  while  his  mouth  is  open  in  Eatolia, 
One  hand  is  firmly  clenched  upon  the  Lucrians, 
And  the  other  stretching  forth  to  the  Peribribeans. 

Nicias. — Let's  die  then,  once  for  all ;  that's  the  best  way, 
Only  we  must  contrive  to  manage  it. 
Nobly  and  manfully  in  a  proper  manner. 

Demosthenes. — Aye,  aye.    Let's  do  things  manfully!    that's 
my  maxim ! 

Nicias. — Well,  there's  t'le  example  of  Themistocles — 
To  drink  bull's  blood :  that  seems  a  manly  death. 


THE  KNIGHTS  143 

Demosthenes. — Bull's  blood !    The  blood  of  the  grape,  I  say  I 
good  wine! 
Who  knows?  it  might  inspire  some  plan,  some  project, 
Some  notion  or  other,  a  good  draught  of  it ! 
NiciAS. — Wine  truly  !    wine ! — still  hankering  after  liquor ! 
Can  wine  do  anything  for  us  ?    Will  your  drink 
Enable  you  to  arrange  a  plan  to  save  us  ? 
Can  wisdom  ever  arise  from  wine,  do  ye  think? 
Demosthenes. — Do  ye  say  so?    You're  a  poor  spring-water 
pitcher ! 
A  silly  chilly  soul.    I'll  tell  ye  what: 
It's  a  very  presumptuous  thing  to  speak  of  liquor," 
As  an  obstacle  to  people's  understanding ; 
It's  the  only  thing  for  business  and  despatch. 
D'ye  observe  how  individuals  thrive  and  flourish 
By  dint  of  drink :   they  prosper  in  proportion ; 
They  improve  their  properties ;   they  get  promotion ; 
Make  speeches,  and  make  interest,  and  make  friends. 
Come,  quick  now — bring  me  a  lusty  stoup  of  wine. 
To  moisten  my  understanding  and  inspire  me. 
NiciAS. — Oh  dear !  your  drink  will  be  the  ruin  of  us ! 
Demosthenes. — It  will  be  the  making  of  ye !    Bring  it  here. 

[Exit  Nicias. 
I'll  rest  me  a  bit;  but  when  I've  got  my  fill, 
I'll  overflow  them  all,  with  a  flood  of  rhetoric. 
With  metaphors  and  phrases  and  what  not. 

[Nicias  returns  in  a  sneaking  7vay  with  a  pot  of  zvine. 
Nicias  [in  a  sheepish  silly  tone  of  triumph]. — How  lucky  for 
me  it  was,  that  I  escaped 
With  the  wine  that  I  took  ! 
Demosthenes    [carelessly   and   bluntly]. — Well    where's   the 

Paphlagonian  ? 
Nicias   [as  before]. — He's  fast  asleep — within  there,  on  his 
back, 
On  a  heap  of  hides — the  rascal !  with  his  belly  full, 
With  a  hash  of  confiscations  half-digested. 
Demosthenes. — That's   welll     Now   fill  me  a  hearty  lusty 
draught. 

•  Though   Demosthenes  has  not  been  drinking,  his  speech  has  the  tone  of  s 
drunken  man. 


144  ARISTOPHANES 

NiciAS  [formally  and  precisely]. — Make  the  libation  first,  and 
drink  this  cup 

To  the  good  Genius. 
Demosthenes    [respiring   after   a   long   draught]. i — O    most 
worthy  Genius ! 

Good  Genius !  'tis  your  genius  that  inspires  me ! 
[Demosthenes  remains  in  a  sort  of  drunken  burlesque  ecstasy. 
NiciAS. — Why,  what's  the  matter? 
Demosthenes. —  I'm  inspired  to  tell  you. 

That  you  must  steal  the  Paphlagonian's  oracles 

Whilst  he's  asleep. 
NiciAS. —  Oh  dear  then,  I'm  afraid, 

This  Genius  will  turn  out  my  evil  Genius. 

[Exit  Nicias. 
Demosthenes. — Come,    I    must    meditate,    and    consult    my 
pitcher ; 

And  moisten  my  understanding  a  little  more. 
[The  interval  of  Nicias' s  absence  is  occupied  by  action  in  dumb 

show:    Demosthenes  is  enjoying  himself  and  getting 

drunk  in  private. 
Nicias    [re-entering  with  a  packet]. — How  fast  asleep  the 
Paphlagonian  was! 

Lord  bless  me,  how  mortally  he  snored  and  stank. 

However,  I've  contrived  to  carry  it  off. 

The  sacred  oracle  that  he  kept  so  secret — 

I've  stolen  it  from  him. 
Demosthenes  [very  drunk]. — That's  my  clever  fellow! 

Here  give  us  hold ;  I  must  read  'em.    Fill  me  a  bumper. 

In  the  meanwhile — make  haste  now.    Let  me  see  now — 

What  have  we  got  ? — What  are  they — these  same  papers  ? 

Oh !  oracles !    .    .    .    o — ra — cles ! — Fill  me  a  stoup  of 
wine. 
Nicias  [fidgeting  and  impatient  after  giving  him  the  wine].— 

Come !  come !  what  says  the  O  'acle  ? 
Demosthenes. —  Fill  it  again! 

Nicias. — Does  the  Oracle  say,  that  I  must  fill  it  again  ? 
Demosthenes  [after  tumbling  over  the  papers  with  a  hiccup]. 

O  Bakis ! « 
Nicias. —  What? 

•  Demosthenes's    articulation    of    this  word  is  assisted  by  a  hiccup. 


THE  KNIGHTS  145 

Demosthenes. —  Fill  me  the  stoup  this  instant. 

NiciAS  [ivith  a  sort  of  puzzled  acquiescetice]. — Well,  Bakis, 
I've  been  told,  was  given  to  drink  ; 

He  prophesied  in  his  liquor  people  say. 
Demosthenes  [with  the  papers  in  his  hand]. — Aye,  there  it 
is — you  rascally  Paphlagonian ! 

This  was  the  prophecy  that  you  kept  so  secret. 
NiciAS. — What's  there  ? 
Demosthenes. —  Why  there's  a  thing  to  ruin  him, 

With  the  manner  of  his  destruction,  all  foretold. 
NiCLAS. — As  how  ? 

Demosthenes  [very  drimk]. — Why  the  Oracle  tells  you  how 
— distinctly — 

And  all  about  it — in  a  perspicuous  manner — 

That  a  jobber  in  hemp  and  flax  "^  is  first  ordained 

To  hold  the  administration  of  affairs. 
NiciAs. — Well,  there's  one  jobber.    Who's  the  next?    Read  on ! 
Demosthenes. — A  cattle  jobber  ®  must  succeed  to  him. 
NiciAS. — More  jobbers!   well — then  what  becomes  of  him? 
Demosthenes. — He  too  shall  prosper,  till  a  viler  rascal 

Shall  be  raised  up,  and  shall  prevail  against  him. 

In  the  person  of  a  Paphlagonian  tanner, 

A  loud  rapacious  leather-selling  ruffian. 
NiciAS. — Is  it  foretold  then,  that  the  cattle  jobber 

Must  be  destroyed  by  the  seller  of  leather? 
Demosthenes. —  Yes. 

NiciAS. — Oh  dear,  our  sellers  and  jobbers  are  at  an  end. 
Demosthenes. — Not  yet ;  there's  still  another  to  succeed  him. 

Of  a  most  uncommon  notable  occupation. 
NiciAS.— Who's  that  ?    Do  tell  me ! 
Demosthenes. —  Must  I  ? 

NiciAs. —  To  be  sure. 

Demosthenes. — A  sausage-seller  it  is,  that  supersedes  him. 
NiciAS.^ — A  sausage-seller!   marvellous  indeed. 

Most  wonderful !    But  where  can  he  be  found  ? 
Demosthenes. — We  must  seek  him  out. 
[Demosthenes  rises  and  bustles  up,  zvith  the  action  of  a  person 

who,  having  been  drunk,  is  rousing  and  recollecting 

">  After  the  death  of  Pericles,  Eucrates  •  See   Note  7. 

and  Lysicles  had  each  taken  the  lead  *  In  the  tone  of  Dominie  Sampson, 

for  a  short  time. 


146  ARISTOPHANES 

himself  for  a  sudden  important  occasion.     His  follow- 
ing speeches  are  all  perfectly  sober. 

NiciAS. —  But  see  there,  where  he  tomes ! 

Sent  hither  providentially  as  it  were ! 

Demosthenes. — O  happy  man !  celestial  sausage-seller ! 
Friend,  guardian  and  protector  of  us  all ! 
Come  forward ;  save  your  friends,  and  save  the  country. 

Enter  Sausage-Seller. 

Sausage-Seller. — Do  you  call  me  ? 

Demosthenes. —  Yes,  we  called  to  you,  to 

announce 
The  high  and  happy  destiny  that  awaits  you. 
NiciAS. — Come,  now  you  should  set  him  free  from  the  encum- 
brance ^^ 
Of  his  table  and  basket ;  and  explain  to  him 
The  tenor  and  the  purport  of  the  Oracle, 
While  I  go  back  to  watch  the  Paphlagonian. 

{Exit  Nicias. 
Demosthenes    [to   the  Sausage-Seller  gravely]. — Set   these 
poor  wares  aside ;   and  now — bow  down 
To  the  ground;    and  adore  the  powers  of  earth  and 
heaven. 
Sausage- Seller. — Heigh-day !    Why,  what  do  you  mean? 
Demosthenes. —  O  happy  man ! 

Unconscious  of  your  glorious  destiny, 
Now  mean  and  unregarded ;  but  to-morrow, 
The  mightiest  of  the  mighty.  Lord  of  Athens. 
Sausage- Seller. — Come,  master,  what's  the  use  of  making 


game 


Why  can't  ye  let  me  wash  the  guts  and  tripe, 
And  sell  my  sausages  in  peace  and  quiet  ? 
Demosthenes. — O  simple  mortal,  cast  those  thoughts  aside! 
Bid  guts  and  tripe  farewell !    Look  there !    Behold 

[pointing  to  the  audience 
The  mighty  assembled  multitude  before  ye ! 

**Thi8  speech  is  intended  to  express  to  address  him;  but  obliquely  manifests 

the    sudden     impression     of    reverence  his  respect,  by  pointing  out  to  Demos- 

with    which    Nicias    is    affected    in    the  thenes    (in    his    hearing)    the    marks   of 

present*    of    the    predestined    supreme  attention  to  which  he  is  entitled. 
Sausage-seller.     He    does   not   presume 


THE  KNIGHTS  147 

Sausage-Seller  [with  a  grumble  of  indifference]. — I  see  'em. 

Demosthenes. —  You  shall  be  their  lord  and  master, 
The  sovereign  and  the  ruler  of  them  all, 
Of  the  assemblies  and  tribunals,  fleets  and  armies; 
You  shall  trample  down  the  Senate  under  foot, 
Confound  and  crush  the  generals  and  commanders. 
Arrest,  imprison,  and  confine  in  irons, 
And  feast  and  fornicate  in  the  Council  House." 

Sausage-Seller. — What,  I  ? 

Demosthenes. —  Yes,  you  yourself :  there's  more 

to  come. 
Mount  here ;  and  from  the  trestles  of  your  stall 
Survey  the  subject  islands  circling  round. 

Sausage-Seller. — I  see  'em. 

Demosthenes. —      And  all  their  ports  and  merchant  vessels? 

Sausage-Seller. — Yes,  all. 

Demosthenes. —        Then  an't  you  a  fortunate  happy  man? 
An't  you  content  ?    Come  then  for  a  further  prospect — 
Turn  your  right  eye  to  Caria,  and  your  left 
To  Carthage !  " — and  contemplate  both  together. 

Sausage-Seller. — Will  it  do  me  good,  d'ye  think,  to  learn  to 
squint? 

Demosthenes. — Not  so ;  but  everything  you  see  before  you 
Must  be  disposed  of  at  your  high  discretion. 
By  sale  or  otherwise ;  for  the  Oracle 
Predestines  you  to  sovereign  power  and  greatness. 

Sausage-Seller. — Are  there  any  means  of  making  a  great  man 
Of  a  sausage-selling  fellow  such  as  I  ? 

Demosthenes. — The  very  means  you  have,  must  make  ye  so, 
Low  breeding,  vulgar  birth,  and  impudence. 
These,  these  must  make  ye,  what  you're  meant  to  be. 

Sausage-Seller. — I  can't  imagine  that  I'm  good  for  much. 

Demosthenes. — Alas!    But  why  do  ye  say  so?    What's  the 
meaning 
Of  these  misgivings?    I  discern  within  ye 
A  promise  and  an  inward  consciousness 

«  The  Prytaneum,  the  honor  of  a  seat  "  "  Carthage  "  must  be  the  true  read- 

at  the  public  table,  was  sometimes  con-  ing,    the    right    eye    to    Cana    and    the 

ferred  on  persons  of  extraordinary  merit  left  to  "  Chalcedon  "  would  not  const!- 

in  advanced  years.     Cleon  had  obtained  tutc  a  squint, 
this    privilege    for   himself,   and    abused 
it  insolently,  as  appears  elsewhere. 


148  ARISTOPHANES 

Of  greatness.    Tell  me  truly :  are  ye  allied 

To  the  families  of  gentry  ? 
Sausage-Seller. —  Naugh,  not  I ; 

I'm  come  from  a  common  ordinary  kindred. 

Of  the  lower  order. 
Demosthenes. —  What  a  happiness ! 

What  a  footing  will  it  give  ye !    What  a  groundwork 

For  confidence  and  favor  at  your  outset ! 
Sausage- Seller. — But  bless  ye !  only  consider  my  education ! 

I  can  but  barely  read    ...    in  a  kind  of  a  way. 
Demosthenes. — That    makes    against    ye! — the    only    thing 
against  ye — 

The  being  able  to  read,  in  any  way : 

For  now  no  lead  nor  influence  is  allowed 

To  liberal  arts  or  learned  education, 

But  to  the  brutal,  base,  and  under-bred. 

Embrace  then  and  hold  fast  the  promises 

Which  the  oracles  of  the  gods  announce  to  you. 
Sausage-Seller. — But  what  does  the  Oracle  say? 
Demosthenes. —  Why  thus  it  says, 

In  a  figurative  language,  but  withal 

Most  singularly  intelligible  and  distinct, 

Neatly  expressed  i'faith,  concisely  and  tersely.** 
"  Moreover,  when  the  eagle  in  his  pride. 

With  crooked  talons  and  a  leathern  hide, 

Shall  seize  the  black  and  blood-devouring  snake ; 

Then  shall  the  woful  tanpits  quail  and  quake; 

And  mighty  Jove  shall  give  command  and  place. 

To  mortals  of  the  sausage-selling  race ; 

Unless  they  choose,  continuing  as  before. 

To  sell  their  sausages  for  evermore." 
Sausage- Seller. — But  how  does  this  concern  me?    Explain  it, 

will  ye? 
Demosthenes. — The  leathern  eagle  is  the  Paphlagonian. 
Sausage-Seller. — What  are  his  talons  ? 
Demosthenes. —  That  explains  itself — 

Talons  for  peculation  and  rapacity. 

"This  is  perfectly  in  character.  De-  the  merit  of  the  "sacred  classics;"' like 
mosthenes  (as  we  have  seen)  does  not  other  critics,  therefore,  of  the  same  de- 
profess  to  believe  in  the  gods;  yet  we  scription,  he  does  it  with  a  sort  of 
•ee  that  upon  occasion  he  can  discuss  patronizing  tone. 


THE  KNIGHTS  149 

Sausage-Seller. — But  what's  the  snake? 
Demosthenes. —  The  snake  is  clear 

and  obvious : 

The  snake  is  long  and  black,  like  a  black-pudding ; 

The  snake  is  filled  with  blood,  like  a  black-pudding. 

Our  Oracle  foretells  then,  that  the  snake 

Shall  baffle  and  overpower  the  leathern  eagle. 
Sausage- Seller. — These   oracles   hit   my    fancy!      Notwith- 
standing   .    .    . 

I'm  partly  doubtful,  how  I  could  contrive    .    .    . 

To  manage  an  administration  altogether    .     .    . 
Demosthenes. — The  easiest  thing  in  nature! — nothing  easier  1 

Stick  to  your  present  practice :   follow  it  up 

In  your  new  calling.     Mangle,  mince  and  mash, 

Confound  and  hack,  and  jumble  things  together! 

And  interlard  your  rhetoric  with  lumps 

Of  mawkish  sweet,  and  greasy  flattery. 

Be  fulsome,  coarse,  and  bloody !    For  the  rest, 

All  qualities  combine,  all  circumstances, 

To  entitle  and  equip  you  for  command ; 

A  filthy  voice,  a  villainous  countenance, 

A  vulgar  birth,  and  parentage,  and  breeding. 

Nothing  is  wanting,  absolutely  nothing. 

And  the  oracles  and  responses  of  the  gods, 

And  prophecies,  all  conspire  in  your  behalf. 

Place  then  this  chaplet  on  your  brows ! — and  worship 

The  anarchic  powers ;   and  rouse  your  spirits  up 

To  encounter  him. 
Sausage-Seller. —  But  who  do  ye  think  will  help  me? 

For  all  our  wealthier  people  are  alarmed, 

And  terrified  at  him ;  and  the  meaner  sort 

In  a  manner  stupefied,  grown  dull  and  dumb. 
Demosthenes. — Why  there's  a  thousand  lusty  cavaliers. 

Ready  to  back  you,  that  detest  and  scorn  him ; 

And  every  worthy  well-born  citizen ; 

And  every  candid  critical  spectator; 

And  I  myself ;  and  the  help  of  heaven  to  boot. 

And  never  fear ;  his  face  will  not  be  seen, 

For  all  the  manufacturers  of  masks, 

From  cowardice,  refused  to  model  it. 


15©  ARISTOPHANES 

It  matters  not ;  his  person  will  be  known : 
Our  audience  is  a  shrewd  one — they  can  guess — 
NiciAS  [in  alarm  from  behind  the  scenes] . — Oh  dear !  oh  dear  1 
the  Paphlagonian's  coming. 

Enter  Cleon  zvith  a  furious  look  and  voice. 

Cleon. — By  heaven  and  earth !  you  shall  abide  it  dearly, 
With  your  conspiracies  and  daily  plots 
Against  the  sovereign  people!    Hah!  what's  this? 
What's  this  Chalcidian  goblet  doing  here  ? 
Are  ye  tempting  the  Chalcidians  to  revolt  ?  ^* 
Dogs !   villains !   every  soul  of  ye  shall  die. 

[The  Sausage-Seller  runs  off  in  a  fright. 
Demosthenes, — Where  are  ye  going  ?    Where  are  ye  running  ? 
Stop! 
Stand  firm,  my  noble  valiant  Sausage-Seller ! 
Never  betray  the  cause.    Your  friends  are  nigh. 

[Speaks  to  the  Chorus. 
Cavaliers  and  noble  captains  I  now's  the  time !  advance 

in  sight ! 
March  in  order — make  the  movement,  and  out-flank  him 
on  the  right !  [Speaks  to  the  Sausage-Seller. 

There  I  see  them  bustling,  hasting ! — only  turn  and  make 

a  stand. 
Stop  but  only  for  a  moment,  your  allies  are  hard  at  hand. 

Enter  Chorus  of  Cavaliers. 

Chorus. — Close  around  him,  and  confound  him,  the  confounder 
of  us  all. 

Pelt  him,  pommel  him  and  maul  him;  rummage,  ran- 
sack, overhaul  him. 

Overbear  him  and  out-bawl  him;  bear  him  down  and 
bring  him  under. 

Bellow  like  a  burst  of  thunder,  robber !  harpy !  sink  of 
plunder ! 

Rogue  and  villain !  rogue,  and  cheat !  rogue  and  villain, 
I  repeat ! 

**  The  Chalcidians  did,  in  fact,  revolt  in  the  following  year;  their  intentions  were 
probably  suspected  at  the  time. 


THE  KNIGHTS 


151 


Oftener  than  I  can  repeat  it,  has  the  rogue  and  villain 
cheated. 

Close  around  him  left  and  right ;   spit  upon  him ;  spurn 
and  smite : 

Spit  upon  him  as  you  see ;  spurn  and  spit  at  him  like  me. 

But  beware,  or  he'll  evade  ye,  for  he  knows  the  private 
track, 

Where  Eucrates  "  was  seen  escaping  with  the  mill  dust 
on  his  back. 
Cleon. — Worthy  veterans  of  the  jury,  you  that  either  right  or 
wrong, 

With  my  threepenny  provision,^*  I've  maintained  and 
cherished  long, 

Come  to  my  aid!     I'm  here  waylaid — assassinated  and 
betrayed ! 
Chorus. — Rightly  served !  we  serve  you  rightly,  for  your  hun- 
gry love  of  pelf. 

For  your  gross  and  greedy  rapine,  gormandizing  by 
yourself ; 

You  that  ere  the  figs  are  gathered,  pilfer  with  a  privy 
twitch 

Fat  delinquents  and  defaulters,  pulpy,  luscious,  plump, 
and  rich ; 

Pinching,  fingering,  and  pulling — tampering,  selecting, 
culling. 

With  a  nice  survey  discerning,  which  are  green  and 
which  are  turning, 

Which  are  ripe  for  accusation,  forfeiture,  and  confisca- 
tion. 

Him  besides,  the  wealthy  man,  retired  upon  an  easy  rent. 

Hating  and  avoiding  party,  noble-minded,  indolent. 

Fearful  of  official  snares,  intrigues  and  intricate  affairs ; 

Him  you  mark ;  you  fix  and  hook  him,  whilst  he's  gap- 
ing unawares ; 

At  a  fling,  at  once  you  bring  him  hither  from  the  Cher- 
sonese," 

» He  was  also  an  owner  of  mills,  as  "  Of  Thrace.     Many    Athenians   pos- 

appears  by  the  Scholiast.  sessed   estates,  and   resided  there  for  a 

"  The  juryman's  fee,  a  means  of  sub-         quiet  life, 
sistenre   to   poor   old    men   driven   from 
their  homes  by  the  war. 


152 


ARISTOPHANES 


Down  you  cast  him,  roast  and  baste  him,  and  devour 
him  at  your  ease. 
Cleon. — Yes!    assault,  insult,  abuse  me!    this  is  the  return, 
I  find, 
For  the  noble  testimony,  the  memorial  I  designed : 
Meaning  to  propose  proposals,  for  a  monument  of  stone. 
On  the  which,  your  late  achievements,^*  should  be  carved 
and  neatly  done. 
Chorus. — Out,  away  with  him !  the  slave !  the  pompous  empty 
fawning  knave ! 
Does  he  think  with  idle  speeches  to  delude  and  cheat  us 

all?  I 

As  he  does  the  doting  elders,  that  attend  his  daily  call."  >/ 
Pelt  him  here,  and  bang  him  there ;  and  here  and  there 
and  everywhere. 
Cleon. — Save  me,  neighbors!    O  the  monsters!    O  my  side, 

my  back,  my  breast ! 
Chorus. — What,  you're  forced  to  call  for  help?    You  brutal 

overbearing  pest. 
Sausage-Seller  [returnmg  to  Cleon]. — I'll  astound  you  with 

my  voice ;   with  my  bawling  looks  and  noise. 
Chorus. — If  in  bawling  you  surpass  him,  you'll  achieve  a  vic- 
tor's crown ; 
If  again  you  overmatch  him,  in  impudence,  the  day's  our 
own. 
Cleon. — I  denounce  this  traitor  here,  for  saiHng  on  clandestine 
trips, 
With  supplies  of  tripe  and  stuffing,  to  careen  the  Spartan 
ships. 
Sausage-Seller. — I   denounce  then  and  accuse  him,   for  a 
greater  worse  abuse : 
That  he  steers  his  empty  paunch,  and  anchors  at  the 

public  board : 
Running  in  without  a  lading,  to  return  completely  stored ! 
Chorus. — Yes!     and    smuggles    out,    moreover,    loaves    and 
luncheons  not  a  few, 
More  than  ever  Pericles,  in  all  his  pride,  presumed  to  do. 
Cleon  [in  a  thunderwg  tone]. — Dogs  and  villains,  you  shall 
die! 

"  In  the  expedition  to  Corinth.  "  The  veterans  of  the  jury. 


THE  KNIGHTS  153 

Sausage-Seller   [in  a  louder,  shriller  tone]. — Aye!     I  can 

scream  ten  times  as  high. 
Cleon. — I'll  overbear  ye,  and  out-bawl  ye. 
Sausage-Seller. — But  I'll  out-scream  ye,  and  out-squall  ye. 
Cleon. — I'll  impeach  you,  whilst  aboard, 

Commanding  on  a  foreign  station. 
Sausage-Seller. — I'll  have  you  sliced,  and  slashed,  and  scored. 
Cleon. — Your  lion's  skin  of  reputation. 

Shall  be  flayed  off  your  back  and  tanned. 
Sausage- Seller. — I'll  take  that  heart  of  yours  in  hand. 
Cleon. — Come,  bring  your  eyes  and  mine  to  meet ! 

And  stare  at  me  without  a  wink ! 
Sausage- Seller. — Yes!   in  the  market-place  and  street, 
I  had  my  birth  and  breeding  too ; 
And  from  a  boy,  to  blush  or  blink, 
I  scorn  the  thing  as  much  as  you. 
Cleon. — I'll  denounce  you  if  you  mutter. 
Sausage-Seller. — I'll  douse  ye  the  first  word  you  utter. 
Cleon. — My  thefts  are  open  and  avowed  ; 

And  I  confess  them,  which  you  dare  not. 
Sausage-Seller. — But  I  can  take  false  oaths  aloud, 
And  in  the  presence  of  a  crowd ; 

And  if  they  know  the  fact  I  care  not. 
Cleon. — What !  do  you  venture  to  invade 
My  proper  calling  and  my  trade? 
But  I  denounce  here,  on  the  spot. 
The  sacrificial  tripe  you've  got ; 

The  tithe  it  owes  was  never  paid: 
It  owes  a  tithe,  I  say,  to  Jove ; 
You've  wronged  and  robbed  the  powers  above. 
Chorus. —  Dark  and  unsearchably  profound  abyss. 

Gulf  of  unfathomable 
Baseness  and  iniquity ! 
Miracle  of  immense, 
Intense  impudence ! 
Every  court,  every  hall, 
Juries  and  assemblies,  all 
Are  stunned  to  death,  deafened  all. 
Whilst  you  bawl. 
The  bench  and  bar 


i54  ARISTOPHANES 

Ring  and  jar. 
Each  decree 
Smells  of  thee, 
Land  and  sea 
Stink  of  thee. 

Whilst  we 
Scorn  and  hate,  execrate,  abominate. 
Thee  the  brawler  and  embroiler,  of  the  nation  and  the 

State. 
You  that  on  the  rocky  seat  of  our  assembly  raise  a  din. 
Deafening  all  our  ears  with  uproar,  as  you  rave  and  howl 

and  grin ; 
Watching  all  the  while  the  vessels  with  revenue  sailing 

in. 
Like  the  tunny-fishers  perched  aloft,  to  look  about  and 

bawl, 
When  the  shoals  are  seen  arriving,  ready  to  secure  a  haul. 
Cleon. — I  was  aware  of  this  affair,  and  every  stitch  of  it  I 
know. 
Where  the  plot  was  cobbled  up  and  patched  together, 
long  ago. 
Sausage-Seller. — Cobbling  is  your  own  profession,  tripe  and 
sausages  are  mine : 
But  the  country  folks  complain,^"  that  in  a  fraudulent 

design, 
You  retailed  them  skins  of  treaties,  that  appeared  like 

trusty  leather. 
Of  a  peace  secure  and  lasting;    but  the  wear-and-tear 

and  weather 
Proved  it  all  decayed  and  rotten,  only  fit  for  sale  and 
show. 
Demosthenes. — Yes !  a  pretty  trick  he  served  me ;  there  was 
I  despatched  to  go, 
Trudged  away  to  Pergasae,-*'  but  found  upon  arriving 

there, 
That  myself  and  my  commission,  both  were  out  at  heels 
and  bare. 

"The  allusions  in  these  lines  relate  ing   the   party;   the   country   people   in 

to  some  incidents  not  recorded   in  his-  particular   (long  excluded  from   the  en- 

tory,  some  artifice  by  which  Cleon  had  joyment    of   their    property)    who    were 

succeeded  in  deluding  and  disappoint-  anxious  for  peace. 


THE  KNIGHTS  155 

Chorus. —     Even  in  your  tender  years, 

And  your  early  disposition, 
You  betrayed  an  inward  sense 
Of  the  conscious  impudence, 
Which  constitutes  a  politician. 
Hence  you  squeeze  and  drain  alone  the  rich  milch  kine 

of  our  allies ; 
Whilst  the  son  of  Hippodamus  licks  his  lips  with  long- 
ing eyes. 
But  now,  with  eager  rapture  we  behold 
A  mighty  miscreant  of  baser  mould ! 
A  more  consummate  ruffian! 
An  energetic  ardent  ragamuffin ! 
Behold  him  there !    He  stands  before  your  eyes. 
To  bear  you  down,  with  a  superior  frown, 

A  fiercer  stare, 
And  more  incessant  and  exhaustless  lies. 
Chorus  [to  the  Sausage-Seller]. — Now  then  do  you,  that  boast 
a  birth,  from  whence  you  might  inherit. 
And  from  your  breeding  have  derived  a  manhood  and  a 

spirit, 
Unbroken  by  the  rules  of  art,  untamed  by  education. 
Show  forth  the  native  impudence  and  vigor  of  the  nation ! 
Sausage- Seller. — Well ;    if  you  like,  then,  I'll  describe  the 
nature  of  him  clearly. 
The  kind  of  rogue  I've  known  him  for. 
Cleon. —  My  friend,  you're  somewhat  early. 

First  give  me  leave  to  speak. 
Sausage-Seller. — I  won't,  by  Jove !    Aye.    You  may  bellow ! 
I'll  make  you  know,  before  I  go,  that  I'm  the  baser  fellow. 
Chorus. — Aye !   stand  to  that !    Stick  to  the  point ;  and  for  a 
further  glory, 
Say  that  your  family  were  base,  time  out  mind  before  ye. 
Cleon. — Let  me  speak  first! 
Sausage-Seller. —  I  won't. 

Cleon. —  You  shall,  by  Jove! 

Sausage-Seller. —  I  won't,  by  Jove,  though ! 

Cleon. — By  Jupiter,  I  shall  burst  with  rage ! 
Sausage-Seller. —  No  matter,  I'll  prevent  you. 

Chorus. — No;    don't  prevent,  for  Heaven's  sake!  Don't  hin- 
der him  from  bursting. 


156  ARISTOPHANES 

Cleon. — What  means — what  ground  of  hope  have  you — to 

dare  to  speak  against  me? 
Sausage-Seller. — What !    I  can  speak !    and  I  can  chop — 

garlic  and  lard  and  logic. 
Cleon. — Aye !    You're  a  speaker,  I  suppose !    I  should  enjoy 
to  see  you, 

Like  a  pert  scullion  set  to  cook — to  see  your  talents  fairly 

Put  to  the  test,  with  hot  blood-raw  disjointed  news  ar- 
riving, 

Obliged  to  hash  and  season  it,  and  dish  it  in  an  instant. 
You're  like  the  rest  of  'em — the  swarm  of  paltry 
weak  pretenders. 

You've  made  your  pretty  speech  perhaps,  and  gained  a 
little  lawsuit 

Against  a  merchant  foreigner,  by  dint  of  water-drink- 
ing, 

And  lying  long  awake  o'  nights,  composing  and  repeat- 
ing, 

And  studying  as  you  walked  the  streets,  and  wearing  out 
the  patience 

Of  all  your  friends  and  intimates,  with  practising  be- 
forehand : 

And  now  you  wonder  at  yourself,  elated  and  delighted 

At  your  own  talent  for  debate — you  silly  saucy  coxcomb. 
Sausage- Seller. — What's  your  own  diet?    How  do  you  con- 
/  trive  to  keep  the  city 

Passive  and  hushed — What  kind  of  drink  drives  ye  to 
that  presumption? 
Cleon. — Why  mention   any   man  besides,   that's   capable  to 
match  me ; 

That  after  a  sound  hearty  meal  of  tunny-fish  and  cutlets, 

Can  quaff  my  gallon ;   and  at  once,  without  premedita- 
tion. 

With  slang  and  jabber  overpower  the  generals  at  Pylos. 
Sausage-Seller. — But  I  can  eat  my  paunch  of  pork,  my  liver 
and  my  haslets, 

And  scoop  the  sauce  with  both  my  hands ;  and  with  my 
dirty  fingers 

I'll  seize  old  Nicias  by  the  throat,  and  choke  the  grand 
debaters. 


THE  KNIGHTS  157 

Chorus. — We  like  your  scheme  in  some  respects ;  but  still  that 
style  of  feeding, 
Keeping  the  sauce  all  to  yourself,  appears  a  gross  pro- 
ceeding. 
Cleon. — But  I  can  domineer  and  dine  on  mullets  at  Miletus. 
Sausage-Seller. — And  I  can  eat  my  shins  of  beef,  and  farm 

the  mines  of  silver. 
Cleon. — I'll  burst  into  the  Council  House,  and  storm  and  blow 

and  bluster. 
Sausage-Seller. — I'll  blow  the  wind  into  your  tail,  and  kick 

you  like  a  bladder. 
Cleon. — I'll  tie  you  neck  and  heels  at  once,  and  kick  ye  to  the 

kennel. 
Chorus. — Begin  with  us  then!     Try  your  skill! — kicking  us 

all  together ! 
Cleon. — I'll  have  ye  pilloried  in  a  trice. 
Sausage-Seller. — I'll  have  you  tried  for  cowardice. 
Cleon. — I'll  tan  your  hide  to  cover  seats. 
Sausage-Seller. — Yours  shall  be  made  a  purse  for  cheats. 

The  luckiest  skin  that  could  be  found. 
Cleon. — Dog,  I'll  pin  you  to  the  ground 

With  ten  thousand  tenter-hooks. 
Sausage-Seller. — I'll  equip  you  for  the  cooks, 

Neatly  prepared,  with  skewers  and  lard. 
Cleon. — I'll  pluck  your  eyebrows  off,  I  will. 
Sausage-Seller. — I'll  cut  your  collops  out,  I  will.* 
Demosthenes. — Yes,  by  Jove!   and  like  a  swine. 
Dangling  at  the  butcher's  door, 
Dress  him  cleanly,  neat,  and  fine. 

Washed  and  scalded  o'er  and  o'er; 
Strutting  out  in  all  his  pride, 
With  his  carcass  open  wide. 
And  a  skewer  in  either  side ; 
While  the  cook,  with  keen  intent, 
By  the  steady  rules  of  art. 
Scrutinizes  every  part, 
The  tongue,  the  throat,  the  maw,  the  vent. 

•It  is  evident  that  a  scuffle  or  wrest-  Sausage-seller   has   the   advantage;  and 

ling    match    takes    place   here,    between  the  Sausage-seller's  soeech  of  four  lines 

the  two  rivals.     It  continues  during  the  which  follows,  implies  that  he  is  at  the 

verses  of  Demosthenes  and  those  of  the  same  time   exhibiting   his  adversary   m 

Chorus,  the  last  of  which  mark  that  the  a  helpless  posture. 


158  ARISTOPHANES 

Chorus. — Some  element  may  prove  more  fierce  than  fire! 
Some  viler  scoundrel  may  be  seen, 
Than  ever  yet  has  been  ! 
And  many  a  speech  hereafter,  many  a  word. 
More  villainous,  than  ever  yet  was  heard. 
We  marvel  at  thy  prowess  and  admire ! 
Therefore  proceed ! 
In  word  and  deed, 
Be  firm  and  bold, 
Keep  steadfast  hold ! 
Only  keep  your  hold  upon  him.    Persevere  as  you  be- 
gan; 
He'll  be  daunted  and  subdued;   I  know  the  nature  of 
the  man. 
Sausage-Seller. — Such  as  here  you  now  behold  him,  all  his 
life  has  he  been  known. 
Till  he  reaped  a  reputation,  in  a  harvest  not  his  own ; 
Now  he  shows  the  sheaves  -^  at  home,  that  he  clandes- 
tinely conveyed, 
Tied  and  bound  and  heaped  together,  till  his  bargain 
can  be  made. 
Clkon  [released  and  recovering  himself]. — I'm  at  ease,  I  need 
not  fear  ye,  with  the  Senate  on  my  side. 
And  the  Commons  all  dejected,  humble,  poor,  and  stu- 
pefied. 
Chorus. —  Mark  his  visage !   and  behold. 

How  brazen,  unabashed,  and  bold! 
How  the  color  keeps  its  place 
In  his  face ! 
Cleon. — Let  me  be  the  vilest  thing,  the  mattress  that  Cra- 
tinus^^  stains ; 
Or  be   forced  to  learn  to  sing,   Morsimus's  ^*   tragic 

strains ; 
If  I  don't  despise  and  loathe,  scorn  and  execrate  ye  both. 
Chorus. —  Active,  eager,  airy  thing! 

Ever  hovering  on  the  wing, 
Ever  hovering  and  discovering 

"■  The    Spartan    prisoners     taken    at  ^  The  famous  camic  poet,  now  grown 

Pylos,  and  kept  in  the  most  severe  con-        old;  and  infirm,  a«  it  appears, 
finement.  **  Ridiculed  elsewhere  as  a  bad  writer 

of  tragedy. 


THE  KNIGHTS  159 

Golden  sweet  secreted  honey, 
Nature's  mintage  and  her  money. 
May  thy  maw  be  purged  and  scoured. 
From  the  gobbets  it  devoured; 
By  the  emetic  drench  of  law ! 
With  the  cheerful  ancient  saw, 
Then  we  shall  rejoice  and  sing, 
Chanting  out  with  hearty  glee, 
"  Fill  a  bumper  merrily, 
For  the  merry  news  I  bring !  " 
But  he,  the  shrewd  and  venerable 
Manciple  -*  of  the  public  table, 
Will  chant  and  chuckle  and  rejoice. 
With  heart  and  voice. 
Cleon. — May  I  never  eat  a  slice,  at  any  public  sacrifice. 

If  your  effrontery  and  pretence,  shall  daunt  my  stead- 
fast impudence. 
Sausage-Seller. — Then,  by  the  memory  which  I  value,  of  all 
the  bastings  in  our  alley. 
When  from  the  dog  butcher's  tray  I  stole  the  lumps  of 

meat  away. 
I  trust  to  match  you  with  a  feat,  and  do  credit  to  my 

meat, 
Credit  to  my  meat  and  feeding,  and  my  bringing  up  and 
breeding. 
Cleon. — Dog's  meat!     What  a  dog  art  thou!     But  I  shall 

dog  thee  fast  enow. 
Sausage-Seller. — Then,  there  were  other  petty  tricks,  I  prac- 
tised as  a  child ; 
Haunting  about  the  butchers'  shops,  the  weather  being 

mild. 
"  See,  boys,"  says  I,  "  the  swallow  there !     Why  sum- 
mer's come  I  say," 
And  when  they  turned  to  gape  and  stare,  I  snatched  a 
steak  away. 
Chorus. — A  clever  lad  you  must  have  been,  you  managed  mat- 
ters rarely. 
To  steal  at  such  an  early  day,  so  seasonably  and  fairly. 

**  The  old  butler  and   steward   of  the         ment,    would    be    overjoyed    at    his    de- 
Prytantnim.  who  h.id  hitherto  been  used         liverance  from  such  a  guest  as  Cleon. 
to   well-bred    company   and   ci--V   treat-  Classics.      Vol.    3(5— H 


i6o  ARISTOPHANES 

Sausage-Seller. — But  if  by  chance  they  spied  it,  I  contrived 
to  hide  it  handily; 
Clapping  it  in  between  my  hams,  tight  and  close  and 

even; 
Calling  on  all  the  powers  above,  and  all  the  gods  in 

heaven ; 
And  there  I  stood,  and  made  it  good,  with  staring  and 

forswearing. 
So  that  a  statesman  of  the  time,  a  speaker  shrewd  and 

witty. 
Was  heard  to  say,  "  That  boy  one  day  will  surely  rule 
the  city." 
Chorus. — 'Twas  fairly  guessed,  by  the  true  test,  by  your  ad- 
dress and  daring, 
First  in  stealing,  then  concealing,  and  again  in  swearing. 
Cleon. — I'll  settle  ye !    Yes,  both  of  ye !   the  storm  of  elocu- 
tion 
Is  rising  here  within  my  breast,  to  drive  you  to  con- 
fusion, 
And  with  a  wild  commotion,  overwhelm  the  land  and 
ocean. 
Sausage- Seller. — Then  I  shall  hand  my  sausages,  and  reef 
'em  close  and  tight. 
And  steer  away  before  the  wind,  and  run  you  out  of 
sight. 
Demosthenes, — And  I  shall  go,  to  the  hold  below,  to  see  that 
all  is  right.  [Exit. 

Cleon. —        By  the  holy  goddess  I  declare. 
Rogue  and  robber  as  you  are, 
I'll  not  brook  it,  or  overlook  it; 
The  public  treasure  that  you  stole, 
I'll  force  you  to  refund  the  whole     .     .     . 
Chorus. — (Keep  near  and  by — the  gale  grows  high.) 
Cleon  [in  continuation] . —    ...    Ten  talents,  I  could  prove 
it  here, 
Were  sent  to  you  from  Potidea. 
Sausage- Seller, — Well,  will  you  take  a  single  one 

To  stop  your  bawling  and  have  done? 
Chorus. — ^Yes,  I'll  be  bound — he'll  compound, 

And  take  a  share — the  wind  grows  fair. 


THE  KNIGHTS  i6i 

This  hurricane  will  overblow. 

Fill  the  sails  and  let  her  go! 
Cleon. — I'll  indict  ye,  I'll  impeach, 

I'll  denounce  ye  in  a  speech; 

With  four  several  accusations. 

For  your  former  peculations, 
Of  a  hundred  talents  each. 
Sausage-Seller. — But  I'll  denounce  ye, 

And  I'll  trounce  ye, 

With  accusations  half  a  score; 

Half  a  score,  for  having  left 

Your  rank  in  the  army ;    and  for  theft 
I'll  charge  ye  with  a  thousand  more. 
Cleon. — I'll  rummage  out  your  pedigree. 

And  prove  that  all  your  ancestry 
Were  sacrilegious  and  accurst.-^ 
Sausage-Seller. — I'll  prove  the  same  of  yours ;  and  first 

The  foulest  treasons  and  the  worst — 

Their  deep  contrivance  to  conceal 

Plots  against  the  common  weal ; 

Which  I  shall  publish  and  declare — 

Publish,  and  depose,  and  swear, 
Cleon. — Plots,  concealed  and  hidden!    Where? 
Sausage-Seller. — Where?    Where  plots  have  always  tried 

To  hide  themselves — beneath  a  hide! 
Cleon. — Go  for  a  paltry  vulgar  slave. 
Sausage-Seller. — Get  out  for  a  designing  knave. 
!  Chorus. — Give  him  back  the  cuflF  you  got ! 
Cleon. — Murder !  help !  a  plot !  a  plot ! 

I'm  assaulted  and  beset! 
Chorus. — Strike  him  harder !  harder  yet ! 

Pelt  him — rap  him, 

Slash  him — slap  him, 

Across  the  chops  there,  with  a  wipe 

Of  your  entrails  and  your  tripe! 

Keep  him  down — the  day's  your  own. 
O  cleverest  of  human  kind  !  the  stoutest  and  the  boldest, 

••  Many  of  the  first  families  were  in-         massacre,    committed    nearly    two    hun- 
Tolved    in    the    g^uilt    of    a    sacrilegious        dred  years  before. 


i62  ARISTOPHANES 

The  saviour  of  the  State,  and  us,  the  friends  that  thou 

beholdest ; 
No  words  can  speak  our  gratitude;   all  praise  appears 

too  little. 
You've  fairly  done  the  rascal  up,  you've  nicked  him  to 
a  tittle. 
Cleon. — By  the  holy  goddess,  it's  not  new  to  me 

This  scheme  of  yours.     I've  known  the  job  long  since. 
The  measurement  and  the  scantling  of  it  all, 
And  where  it  was  shaped  out  and  tacked  together. 
Chorus. — Aye !    There  it  is !    You  must  exert  yourself ; 

Come,  try  to  match  him  again  with  a  carpenter's  phrase. 
Sausage-Seller. — Does  he  think  I  have  not  tracked  him  in 
his  intrigues 
At  Argos  ? — his  pretence  to  make  a  treaty 
With  the  people  there  ? — ^and  all  his  private  parley 
With  the  Spartans? — There  he  works  and  blows  the 

coals ; 
And  has  plenty  of  other  irons  in  the  fire. 
Chorus. — Well  done,  the  blacksmith  beats  the  carpenter. 
Sausage-Seller    [in    continuation]. — And    the    envoys    that 
come  here,  are  all  in  a  tale ; 
All  beating  time  to  the  same  tune.    I  tell  ye. 
It's  neither  gold  nor  silver,  nor  the  promises, 
Nor  the  messages  you  send  me  by  your  friends, 
That  will  ever  serve  your  turn ;  or  hinder  me 
From  bringing  all  these  facts  before  the  public. 
Cleon. — Then  I'll  set  ofif  this  instant  to  the  Senate ; 

To  inform  them  of  your  conspiracies  and  treasons, 
Your  secret  nightly  assembhes  and  cabals, 
Your  private  treaty  with  the  king  of  Persia, 
Your  correspondence  with  Boeotia, 
And  the  business  that  you  keep  there  in  the  cheese-press, 
Close  packed  you  think,  and  ripening  out  of  sight. 
Sausage-Seller. — Ah !  cheese  ?    Is  cheese  any  cheaper  there, 

d'ye  hear? 
Cleon. — By  Hercules!     I'll  have  ye  crucified! 

[Exit  Cleon. 
Chorus  [to  the  Sausage-Seller] . — Well,  how  do  you  feel  your 
heart  and  spirits  now? 


THE  KNIGHTS  163 

Rouse  up  your  powers !    If  ever  in  your  youth 
You  swindled  and  forswore  as  you  profess ; 
The  time  is  come  to  show  it.    Now  this  instant 
He's  hurrying  headlong  to  the  Senate  House ; 
To  tumble  amongst  them  like  a  thunderbolt; 
To  accuse  us  all,  to  rage,  and  storm,  and  rave. 
Sausage- Seller. — Well,  I'll  be  off  then.     But  these  entrails 
and  pudding, 
I  must  put  them  by  the  while,  and  the  chopping  knife. 
Chorus. — Here  take  this  lump  of  lard,  to  'noint  your  neck 
with; 
The  grease  will  give  him  the  less  hold  upon  you, 
With  the  gripe  of  his  accusations. 
Sausage-Seller. —  That's  well  thought  of. 

Chorus. — And  here's  the  garlic.    Swallow  it  down ! 
Sausage-Seller. —  What  for? 

Chorus. — It  will  prime  you  up,^^  and  make  you  fight  the  bet- 
ter. 
Make  haste! 
Sausage- Seller. —    Why,  so  I  do. 
Chorus. —  Remember  now — 

Show  blood  and  game.    Drive  at  him  and  denounce  him ! 
Dash  at  his  comb,  his  coxcomb,  cuff  it  soundly ! 
Peck,  scratch,  and  tear,  conculcate,  clapperclaw  1 
Bite  both  his  wattles  off,  and  gobble  'em  up ! 
And  then  return  in  glory  to  your  friends. 

[Exit  Sausage-Seller. 
Chorus. —     Well  may  you  speed 
In  word  and  deed. 

May  all  the  powers  of  the  market-place 
Grant  ye  protection,  and  help,  and  grace, 
With  strength  of  lungs  and  front  and  brain ; 
With  a  crown  of  renown,  to  return  again. 

[Turning  to  the  audience. 
j  But  you  that  have  heard  and  applauded  us  here, 

In  every  style  and  in  every  way. 
Grant  us  an  ear,  and  attend  for  a  while. 
To  the  usual  old  anapestic  essay. 

**  Game-cocks  are  dieted  with  garlic. 


i64  ARISTOPHANES 

Parabasis. 

If  a  veteran  author  had  wished  to  engage  " 

Our  assistance  to-day,  for  a  speech  from  the  stage ; 

We  scarce  should  have  granted  so  bold  a  request ; 

But  this  author  of  ours,  as  the  bravest  and  best, 

Deserves  an  indulgence  denied  to  the  rest. 

For  the  courage  and  vigor,  the  scorn  and  the  hate, 

With  which  he  encounters  the  pests  of  the  State; 

A  thorough-bred  seaman,  intrepid  and  warm, 

Steering  outright,  in  the  face  of  the  storm. 

But  now  for  the  gentle  reproaches  he  bore 

On  the  part  of  his  friends,  for  refraining  before 

To  embrace  the  profession,  embarking  for  life 

In  theatrical  storms  and  poetical  strife. 

He  begs  us  to  state,  that  for  reasons  of  weight. 

He  has  lingered  so  long,  and  determined  so  late. 

For  he  deemed  the  achievements  of  -comedy  hard, 

The  boldest  attempt  of  a  desperate  bard ! 

The  Muse  he  perceived  was  capricious  and  coy, 

Though  many  were  courting  her  few  could  enjoy. 

And  he  saw  without  reason,  from  season  to  season, 

Your  humor  would  shift,  and  turn  poets  adrift. 

Requiting  old  friends  with  unkindness  and  treason, 

Discarded  in  scorn  as  exhausted  and  worn. 

Seeing  Magnes's  fate,  who  was  reckoned  of  late 

For  the  conduct  of  comedy  captain  and  head  ; 

That  so  oft  on  the  stage,  in  the  flower  of  his  age. 

Had  defeated  the  Chorus  his  rivals  had  led ; 

With  his  sounds  of  all  sort,  that  were  uttered  in  sport. 

With  whims  and  vagaries  unheard  of  before. 

With  feathers  and  wings,  and  a  thousand  gay  things. 

That  in  frolicsome  fancies  his  Choruses  wore — 

When  his  humor  was  spent,  did  your  temper  relent, 

To  requite  the  delight  that  he  gave  you  before  ? 

We  beheld  him  displaced,  and  expelled  and  disgraced, 

When  his  hair  and  his  wit  were  grown  aged  and  hoar. 

''The  whole  tenor  of  this   Pacabasis  to  take,  undeterred  by  the  discouraging 

turns   upon   the   decisive   and    irretriev-  example  o'  his  predecessors  in  the  same 

able    step,    which    the   poet    (after   long  line,  whom  he  enumerates  and  describes, 

hesitation,  and  resisting  the  importunity  devoting    himself    irrevocably    and    ex- 

of  his  friends)  had  at  length  determined  clusively  to  the  composition  of  comedy. 


THE  KNIGHTS  165 

Then  he  saw,  for  a  sample,  the  dismal  example 
Of  noble  Cratinus  so  splendid  and  ample. 
Full  of  spirit  and  blood,  and  enlarged  like  a  flood ; 
Whose  copious  current  tore  down  with  its  torrent. 
Oaks,  ashes  and  yew,  with  the  ground  where  they  grew, 
And  his  rivals  to  boot,  wrenched  up  by  the  root ; 
And  his  personal  foes,  who  presumed  to  oppose. 
All  drowned  and  abolished,  dispersed  and  demolished, 
And  drifted  headlong,  with  a  deluge  of  song. 
And  his  airs  and  his  tunes,  and  his  songs  and  lampoons, 
Were  recited  and  sung,  by  the  old  and  the  young — 
At  our  feasts  and  carousals  what  poet  but  he  ? 
And   "  The   fair  Amphibribe "   and    "  The    Sycophant 
Tree," 
**  Masters  and  masons  and  builders  of  verse !  " — 
Those  were  the  tunes  that  all  tongues  could  rehearse ; 
But  since  in  decay,  you  have  cast  him  away, 
Stript  of  his  stops  and  his  musical  strings. 
Battered  and  shattered,  a  broken  old  instrument, 
Shoved  out  of  sight  among  rubbishy  things. 
His  garlands  are  faded,  and  what  he  deems  worst, 
His  tongue  and  his  palate  are  parching  with  thirst ; 
And  now  you  may  meet  him  alone  in  the  street, 
Wearied  and  worn,  tattered  and  torn, 
All  decayed  and  forlorn,  in  his  person  and  dress ; 
Whom  his  former  success  should  exempt  from  distress, 
With  subsistence  at  large,  at  the  general  charge. 
And  a  seat  with  the  great,  at  the  table  of  state,^^ 
There  to  feast  every  day,  and  preside  at  the  play 
In  splendid  apparel,  triumphant  and  gay. 
Seeing  Crates  the  next,  always  teased  and  perplexed, 
With  your  tyrannous  temper  tormented  and  vexed ; 
That  with  taste  and  good  sense,  without  waste  or  ex- 
pense, 
From  his  snug  little  hoard,  provided  your  board. 
With  a  delicate  treat,  economic  and  neat. 
Thus  hitting  or  missing,  with  crowns  or  with  hissing, 
Year  after  year,  he  pursued  his  career. 
For  better  or  worse,  till  he  finished  his  course. 

^  The  Prytaneum. 


l66  ARISTOPHANES 

These  precedents  held  him  in  long  hesitation ; 
He  replied  to  his  friends,  with  a  just  observation, 
"  That  a  seaman  in  regular  order  is  bred. 
To  the  oar,  to  the  helm,  and  to  look  out  ahead ; 
With  diligent  practise  has  fixed  in  his  mind 
The  signs  of  the  weather,  and  changes  of  wind- 
And  when  every  point  of  the  service  is  known, 
Undertakes  the  command  of  a  ship  of  his  own." 

For  reasons  like  these, 

If  your  judgment  agrees, 

That  he  did  not  embark, 

Like  an  ignorant  spark, 

Or  a  troublesome  lout. 

To  puzzle  and  bother,  and  blunder  about, 

Give  him  a  shout. 

At  his  first  setting  out ! 

And  all  pull  away 

With  a  hearty  huzza 

For  success  to  the  play! 

Send  him  away, 

Smiling  and  gay, 

Shining  and  florid, 

With  his  bald  forehead ! 

Strophe. 

Neptune,  lord  of  land  and  deep. 
From  the  lofty  Sunian  steep, 

With  delight  surveying 
The  fiery-footed  steeds. 

Frolicking  and  neighing 
As  their  humor  leads — 

And  rapid  cars  contending 

Venturous  and  forward. 
Where  splendid  youths  are  spending 
The  money  that  they  borrowed. 

Thence  downward  to  the  ocean. 

And  the  calmer  show 
Of  the  dolphin's  motion 

In  the  depths  below ; 
And  the  glittering  galleys 


THE  KNIGHTS  167 

Gallantly  that  steer. 
When  the  squadron  sallies. 

With  wages  in  arrear. 
List,  O  list ! 
Listen  and  assist, 

Thy  Chorus  here ! 
Mighty  Saturn's  son ! 
The  support  of  Phormion," 

In  his  victories  of  late  ; 

To  the  fair  Athenian  State 

More  propitious  far, 

Than  all  the  gods  that  are. 

In  the  present  war. 

Epirrhema. 

Let  us  praise  our  famous  fathers,  let  their  glory  be  re- 
corded 

On  Minerva's  mighty  mantle '"  consecrated  and  em- 
broidered. 

That  with  many  a  naval  action  and  with  infantry  by  land, 

Still  contending,  never  ending,  strove  for  empire  and 
command. 

When  they  met  the  foe,  disdaining  to  compute  a  poor 
account 

Of  the  number  of  their  armies,  of  their  muster  and 
amount : 

But  whene'er  at  wrestling  matches^^  they  were  worsted 
in  the  fray; 

Wiped  their  shoulders  from  the  dust,  denied  the  fall, 
and  fought  away. 

Then  the  generals^^  never  claimed  precedence,  or  a  sep- 
arate seat. 

Like  the  present  mighty  captains;  or  the  public  wine 
or  meat. 

*»  A   most   able   and   successful   naval  *  Thirty-two   years   before   this   time, 

commander.  the   Athenians,   after   being  foiled   in   a 

*>  This  mantle  was  an  enormous  piece  great  battle  at  Tanagra,  risked  another 

of  tapestry  adorned  with  the  actions  and  general   action   at   Omophuta,   in   which 

fiRurcs  of  the  naval  heroes  and  protect-  they    were     victorious,    only    sixty-two 

ing  deities.    It  was  renewed  every  year;  days  after  the  first! 

and    WIS   carried  to  the   temple,   at   the  •*  Tolmides  and  Myronides,  who  com- 

Panathenaic  procession,  suspended  and  manded  in  the  battles  here  alluded  to. 
displayed  from   a   tall  mast  fixed   on  a 
movable  carriage. 


i68  ARISTOPHANES 

As  for  us,  the  sole  pretension  suited  to  our  birth  and 

years, 
Is  with  resolute  intention,  as  determined  volunteers, 
To  defend  our  fields  and  altars,  as  our  fathers  did  before ; 
Claiming  as  a  recompense  this  easy  boon,  and  nothing 

more: 
When  our  trials  with  peace  are  ended,  not  to  view  us 

with  malignity; 
When  we're  curried,  sleek  and  pampered,  prancing  in 

our  pride  and  dignity. 

Antistrophe.* 
Mighty  Minerva!    thy  command 
Rules  and  upholds  this  happy  land; 
Attica,  famed  in  every  part. 
With  a  renown  for  arms  and  art. 

Noted  among  the  nations. 
Victory  bring — the  bard's  delight ; 
She  that  in  faction  or  in  fight. 

Aids  us  on  all  occasions. 
Goddess,  list  to  the  song!    Bring  her  away  with  thee, 
Haste  and  bring  her  along !    Here  to  the  play  with  thee. 

Bring  fair  Victory  down  for  us ! 

Bring  her  here  with  a  crown  for  us ! 

Come  with  speed,  as  a  friend  indeed, 

Now  or  never  at  our  need ! 

ANTEPIRRHEMA.f 

Let  us  sing  the  mighty  deeds  of  our  illustrious  noble 

steeds. 
They  deserve  a  celebration  for  their  service  heretofore, 

*  It  will  be  seen  that  there  is  a  want  serious  tone  than  its  preceding  epir- 
of  correspondence  and  proportion  be-  rhema;  as  if  the  poet  were,  or  thought  it 
tween  the  strophe  and  antistrophe;  the  right  to  appear,  apprehensive  of  having 
first  has  been  enlarged,  to  give  scope  been  over-earnest  in  his  first  address, 
for  the  development  of  the  poetic  In  the  present  instance,  as  the  poetical 
imagery,  tinged  with  burlesque,  which  advocate  of  his  party,  he  had  already 
appears  in  the  original.  In  atonement  stated  their  claims  to  public  confidence 
for  this  irregularity,  the  antistrophe,  and  favor;  and,  in  the  concluding  lines, 
which  oflfered  no  such  temptation,  is  had  deprecated  the  jealousy  and  envy 
given  as  an  exact  metrical  facsimile  of  to  which  they  were  exposed.  He  now 
the  original.  In  this  respect,  it  may  at  wishes  to  give  a  striking  instance  of 
least  have  some  merit  as  a  curiosity.  their  spirit  and  alacrity  in  the  service 
The  only  variation  consists  in  a  triple,  of  the  country;  and  it  is  given  accord- 
instead  of  a  double,  rhyme.  ingly,  in  the  most  uninvidious  manner, 

t  It    is   observable,    that    the    antepir-  in    a    tone    of    extravagant    burlesque 

rhema  is  generally  in  a  lower  and  less  humor. 


THE  KNIGHTS  169 

Charges  and  attacks,  exploits  enacted  in  the  days  of  yore : 
These,  however,  strike  me  less,  as  having  been  per- 
formed ashore. 
But  the  wonder  was  to  see  them,  when  they  fairly  went 

aboard, 
With  canteens  and  bread  and  onions,  victualled  and 

completely  stored. 
Then  they  fixed  and  dipped  their  oars  beginning  all  to 

shout  and  neigh, 
Just  the  same  as  human  creatures,  "  Pull  away,  boys  I 

Pull  away !  " 
"  Bear  a  hand  there,  Roan  and   Sorrel !     Have  a  care 

there.  Black  and  Bay ! 
Then  they  leapt   ashore  at   Corinth;    and  the  lustier 

younger  sort 
Strolled  about  to  pick  up  litter,^^  for  their  solace  and 

disport : 
And  devoured  the  crabs  of  Corinth,  as  a  substitute  for 

clover. 
So  that  a  poetic  Crabbe,^*  exclaimed  in  anguish  "  All  is 

over! 
What  awaits  us,  mighty  Neptune,  if  we  cannot  hope  to 

keep 
From  pursuit  and  persecution  in  the  land  or  in  the  deep.'* 
Chorus  [to  the  Sausage-Seller]. —  * 

O  best  of  men !   thou  tightest  heartiest  fellow ! 
What  a  terror  and  alarm  had  you  created 
In  the  hearts  of  all  your  friends  by  this  delay. 
But  since  at  length  in  safety  you  return, 
Say  what  was  the  result  of  your  attempt, 
Sausage-Seller. — The  result  is;    you  may  call  me  Nicko- 

boulus ; 
For  I've  nicked  the  Boule  there,  the  Senate,  capitally. 
Chorus. —  Then  we  may  chant  amain 

In  an  exulting  strain, 
With  ecstasy  triumphant  bold  and  high, 

O  thou  1 
That  not  in  words  alone,  or  subtle  thought, 

**'rhe  uF^iat  licentious  excesses  of  an  invading  army. 
•*  The  poet  Carkinus, 


lyo  ARISTOPHANES 

But  more  in  manly  deed, 
Hast  merited,  and  to  fair  achievement  brought ! 

Relate  at  length  and  tell 

The  event  as  it  befell : 
So  would  I  gladly  pass  a  weary  way ; 

Nor  weary  would  it  seem, 

Attending  to  the  theme, 
Of  all  the  glories  of  this  happy  day. 
Come,  my  jolly  worthy  fellow,  never  fear! 
We're  all  delighted  with  you — let  us  hear! 
Sausage- Seller. — Aye,  aye — It's  well  worth  hearing,  I  cai? 

tell  ye : 
I  followed  after  him  to  the  Senate  House ; 
And  there  was  he,  storming,  and  roaring,  driving 
His  thunderbolts  about  him,  bowling  down 
His  biggest  words,  to  crush  the  cavaliers. 
Like  stones  from  a  hill-top ;  calling  them  traitors, 
Conspirators — what  not  ?    There  sat  the  Senate 
With  their  arms  folded,  and  their  eyebrows  bent. 
And  their  lips  puckered,  with  the  grave  aspect 
Of  persons  utterly  humbugged  and  bamboozled. 
Seeing  the  state  of  things,  I  paused  awhile, 
Praying  in  secret  with  an  under  voice : 
"  Ye  influential  impudential  powers 
Of  sauciness  and  jabber,  slang  and  jaw ! 
Ye  spirits  of  the  market-place  and  street. 
Where  I  was  reared  and  bred — befriend  me  now! 
Grant  me  a  voluble  utterance,  and  a  vast 
Unbounded  voice,  and  steadfast  impudence !  " 
Whilst  I  thus  thought  and  prayed,  on  the  right  hand, 
I  heard  a  sound  of  wind  distinctly  broken ! 
I  seized  the  omen  at  once ;  and  bouncing  up, 
I  burst  among  the  crowd,  and  bustled  through, 
And  bolted  in  at  the  wicket,  and  bawled  out : 
"  News !   news !     I've  brought  you   news !   the  best  of 

news ! 
Yes,  Senators,  since  first  the  war  began, 
There  never  has  been  known,  till  now  this  morning, 
Such  a  haul  of  pilchards."    Then  they  smiled  and  seemed 
All  tranquillized  and  placid  at  the  prospect 


THE  KNIGHTS  171 

Of  pilchards  being  likely  to  be  cheap. 

I  then  proceeded  and  proposed  a  vote 

To  meet  the  emergence  secretly  and  suddenly : 

To  seize  at  once  the  trays  of  all  the  workmen, 

And  go  with  them  to  market  to  buy  pilchards, 

Before  the  price  was  raised.    Immediately 

They  applauded,  and  sat  gaping  all  together. 

Attentive  and  admiring.    He  perceived  it ; 

And  framed  a  motion,  suited  as  he  thought 

To  the  temper  of  the  Assembly.    *'  I  move,"  says  he, 

**That  on  occasion  of  this  happy  news. 
We  should  proclaim  a  general  thanksgiving ; 
With  a  festival  moreover,  and  a  sacrifice 
Of  a  hundred  head  of  oxen ;  to  the  goddess." 
Then  seeing  he  meant  to  drive  me  to  the  wall 
With  his  hundred  oxen,  I  overbid  him  at  once; 
And  said  "  two  hundred,"  and  proposed  a  vow. 
For  a  thousand  goats  to  be  offered  to  Diana, 
Whenever  sprats  should  fall  to  forty  a  penny. 
With  that  the  Senate  smiled  upon  me  again ; 
And  he  grew  stupefied  and  lost,  and  stammering ; 
And  attempting  to  interrupt  the  current  business. 
Was  called  to  order,  and  silenced  and  put  down. 
Then  they  were  breaking  up  to  buy  their  pilchards: 
But  he  must  needs  persist,  and  beg  for  a  hearing — 

**  For  a  single  moment — for  a  messenger — 
For  a  herald  that  was  come  from  Lacedaemon, 
With  an  offer  of  peace — for  an  audience  to  be  given 

him." 
But  they  broke  out  in  an  uproar  all  together : 

y  Peace  truly!     Peace  forsooth!    Yes,  now's  their  time; 
I  warrant  'em ;  when  pilchards  are  so  plenty. 

I  They've  heard  of  it ;  and  now  they  come  for  peace ! 
No !  No  !  No  peace !    The  war  must  take  its  course.'* 
Then  they  called  out  to  the  Presidents  to  adjourn ; 
And  scrambled  over  the  railing  and  dispersed  ; 
And  I  dashed  down  to  the  market-place  headlong; 
And  bought  up  all  the  fennel,  and  bestowed  it 
As  donative,  for  garnish  to  their  pilchards, 
Among  the  poorer  class  of  Senators ; 


172  ARISTOPHANES 

And  they  so  thanked  and  praised  me,  that  in  short, 
For  twenty-pence,  I've  purchased  and  secured  them. 
Chorus. — With  fair  event  your  first  essay  began, 
Betokening  a  predestined  happy  man. 
The  villain  now  shall  meet 

In  equal  war, 
A  more  accomplished  cheat, 
A  viler  far ; 
With  turns  and  tricks  more  various. 
More  artful  and  nefarious. 
But  thou ! 
Bethink  thee  now; 
Rouse  up  thy  spirit  to  the  next  endeavor! 
Our  hands  and  hearts  and  will, 
Both  heretofore  and  ever. 
Are  with  thee  still. 
Sausage-Seller. — The    Paphlagonian !      Here    he's   coming, 
foaming 
And  swelling  like  a  breaker  in  the  surf ! 
With  his  hobgoblin  countenance  and  look ; 
For  all  the  world  as  if  he'd  swallow  me  up. 

Enter  Cleon. 

Cleon. — May  I  perish  and  rot,  but  I'll  consume  and  ruin  ye; 

I'll  leave  no  trick,  no  scheme  untried  to  do  it. 
Sausage-Seller. — It  makes  me  laugh,  it  amuses  one,  to  see 
him 

Bluster  and  storm !    I  whistle  and  snap  my  fingers. 
Cleon. — By  the  powers  of  earth  and  heaven !  and  as  I  live ! 

You  villain,  I'll  annihilate  and  devour  ye. 
Sausage-Seller. — Devour  me!  and  as  I  live,  I'll  swallow  ye; 

And  gulp  ye  down  at  a  mouthful,  without  salt. 
Cleon. — I  swear  by  the  precedence,  and  the  seat 

Which  I  achieved  at  Pylos,  I'll  destroy  ye. 
Sausage-Seller. — Seat,  precedence  truly !    I  hope  to  see  you, 

The  last  amongst  us  in  the  lowest  place. 
Cleon. — I'll  clap  you  in  jail,  in  the  stocks — By  heaven !    I  will. 
Sausage-Seller, — To  see  it  how  it  takes  on!     Barking  and 
tearing! 

What  ails  the  creature?    Does  it  want  a  sop? 


THE  KNIGHTS  173 

Cleon. — I'll  claw  your  entrails  out,  with  these  nails  of  mine. 
Sausage-Seller. — I'll  pare  those  nails  of  yours,  from  clawing 
victuals 

At  the  public  table. 
Cleon. —  I'll  drag  you  to  the  Assembly 

This  instant,  and  accuse  ye,  and  have  you  punished. 
Sausage-Seller. — And   I'll   bring   accusations  there  against 
you, 

Twenty  for  one,  and  worse  than  yours  tenfold. 
Cleon. — Aye — my  poor  soul !  but  they  won't  mind  ye  or  hear  ye, 

Whilst  I  can  manage  'em  and  make  fools  of  'em. 
Sausage- Seller. — You  reckon  they  belong  to  ye,  I  suppose? 
Cleon. — Why  should  not  they,  if  I  feed  and  diet  'em  ? 
Sausage-Seller. — Aye,    aye,    and    like    the    licorice-greedy 
nurses, 

You  swallow  ten  for  one  yourself  at  least. 

For  every  morsel  the  poor  creatures  get. 
Cleon. — Moreover,  in  doing  business  in  the  Assembly, 

I  have  such  a  superior  influence  and  command, 

That  I  can  make  them  close  and  hard  and  dry. 

Or  pass  a  matter  easily,  as  I  please. 
Sausage-Seller. — Moreover,  in  doing  business — my  band, 

Has  the  same  sort  of  influence  and  command ; 

And  plays  at  fast  and  loose,  just  as  it  pleases. 
Cleon. — You  sha'n't  insult  as  you  did  before  the  Senate. 

Come,  come,  before  the  Assembly. 
Sausage-Seller  [coolly  and  dryly]. — Aye — yes — why  not? 

With  all  my  heart !    Let's  go  there — What  should  hinder 
us? 
Cleon. — My  dear  good  Demus,  do  step  out  a  moment ! '' 
Sausage-Seller. — My  dearest  little  Demus,  do  step  out ! 
Demus. — Who's  there?     Keep  off!     What  a  racket  are  you 
making ; 

Bawling  and  caterwauling  about  the  door; 

To  affront  the  house,  and  scandalize  the  neighbors. 
Cleon. — Come  out,  do  see  yourself,  how  I'm  insulted. 
Demus. — Oh,  my  poor  Paphlagonian !     What's  the  matter? 

Who  has  affronted  ye? 

•*  The    scene    is    supposed    to    be    in   front  of  Demus's  house. 


174 


ARISTOPHANES 


Cleon. —  I'm  waylaid  and  beaten, 

By  that  rogue  there,  and  the  rake-helly  young  fellows. 

All  for  your  sake. 
Demus. —  How  so? 

Cleon. —  Because  I  love  you. 

And  court  you,  and  wait  on  you,  to  win  your  favor. 
Demus. — And  you  there,  sirrah  I  tell  me  what  are  you  ? 
Sausage-Seller. — A  lover  of  yours,  and  a  rival  of  his,  this  long 
time; 

That  have  wished  to  oblige  ye  and  serve  ye  in  every  way ; 

And  many  there  are  besides,  good  gentlefolks. 

That  adore  ye,  and  wish  to  pay  their  court  to  ye ; 
—  But  he  contrives  to  baffle  and  drive  them  off. 

In  short,  you're  like  the  silly  spendthrift  heirs, 

That  keep  away  from  civil  well-bred  company, 

To  pass  their  time  with  grooms  and  low  companions, 

Cobblers,  and  curriers,  tanners,  and  such  like. 
Cleon. — And  have  not  I  merited  that  preference. 

By  my  service  ? 
Sausage-Seller. —         In  what  way  ? 
Cleon. —  By  bringing  back 

The  Spartan  captives  tied  and  bound  from  Pylos. 
Sausage-Seller. — And  would  not  I  bring  back  from  the  cook's 
shop 

A  mess  of  meat  that  belonged  to  another  man  ? 
Cleon. — Well,  Demus,  call  an  Assembly  then  directly, 

To  decide  between  us,  which  is  your  best  friend ; 

And  when  you've  settled  it,  fix  and  keep  to  him. 

[Exit  Cleon. 
Sausage-Seller. — Ah,  do!  pray  do   decide! — but  not  in  the 

Pnyx — 
Demus. — It  must  be  there ;  it  can't  be  anywhere  else ; 

It's  quite  impossible :  you  must  go  to  the  Pnyx. 
Sausage-Seller. — Oh  dear !  I'm  lost  and  ruined  then !  the  old 
fellow 

Is  sharp  and  clever  enough  in  his  own  home ; 

But  planted  with  his  feet  upon  that  rock, 

He  grows  completely  stupefied  and  bothered. 
Chorus. — Now  you  must  get  your  words  and  wit,  and  all  your 
tackle  ready. 


THE  KNIGHTS  175 

To  make  a  dash,  but  don't  be  rash,  be  watchful,  bold  and 

steady. 
You've  a  nimble  adversary,  shifting,  and  alert,  and  wary. 

\The  scene  changes  and  discovers  the  Pnyx  with  Cleon  on  the 
Bema,  in  an  oratorical  attitude.^ 

Look  out !  have  a  care !  behold  him  there  I  '• 
He's  bearing  upon  you — be  ready,  prepare. 
Out  with  the  dolphin  !    Haul  it  hard  ! 
Away  with  it  up  to  the  peak  of  the  yard ! 
And  out  with  the  pinnace^^  to  serve  for  a  guard. 

Cleon. — To  Minerva  the  sovereign  goddess  I  call, 
Our  guide  and  defender,  the  hope  of  us  all ; 
With  a  prayer  and  a  vow,  that,  even  as  now, 
If  I'm  truly  your  friend,  unto  my  life's  end, 
I  may  dine  in  the  hall,  doing  nothing  at  all ! 
But,  if  I  despise  you,  or  ever  advise  you, 
Against  what  is  best,  for  your  comfort  and  rest ; 
Or  neglect  to  attend  you,  defend  you,  befriend  you, 
May  I  perish  and  pine ;  may  this  carcass  of  mine 
Be  withered  and  dried,  and  curried  beside ; 
And  straps  for  your  harness  cut  out  from  the  hide. 

Sausage-Seller. — Then,  Demus — if  I,  tell  a  word  of  a  lie; 
If  any  man  more  can  dote  or  adore, 
With  so  tender  a  care,  I  make  it  my  prayer, 
My  prayer  and  my  wish,  to  be  stewed  in  a  dish; 
To  be  sliced  and  slashed,  minced  and  hashed ; 
And  the  offal  remains  that  are  left  by  the  cook, 
Dragged  out  to  the  grave,  with  my  own  flesh-hook. 

Cleon. — O  Demus !  has  any  man  shown  such  a  zeal, 
Such  a  passion  as  I  for  the  general  weal  ? 
Racking  and  screwing  offenders  to  ruin ; 
With  torture  and  threats  extorting  your  debts ; 
Exhausting  all  means  for  enhancing  your  fortune. 
Terror  and  force  and  entreaties  importune. 
With  a  popular,  pure,  patriotical  aim  ; 
Unmoved  by  compassion,  or  friendship,  or  shame. 

5"  Observe    that    the    change    of    the  vessel    defending   itself   against   the   at- 

scene    is    accornpanied    by    the    idea    of  tack  of  a  ship  of  war:  the  pinnace  was 

naval  manoeuvre.  interposed    to    break   the    shock   of   the 

"  The   image   is   that   of   a   merchant  enemy's  prow. 


176  ARISTOPHANES 

Sausage-Seller. — All  this  I  can  do;  more  handily  too; 
•  With  ease  and  despatch ;  I  can  pilfer  and  snatch, 
And  supply  ye  with  loaves  from  another  man's  batch. 
But  now,  to  detect  his  saucy  neglect ; 
(In  spite  of  the  boast,  of  his  loyalty  due, 
Is  the  boiled  and  the  roast,  to  your  table  and  you.) 
You — that  in  combat  at  Marathon  sped. 
And  hewed  down  your  enemies  hand  over  head, 
The  Mede  and  the  Persian,  achieving  a  treasure 
Of  infinite  honor  and  profit  and  pleasure. 
Rhetorical  praises  and  tragical  phrases; 
Of  rich  panegyric  a  capital  stock — 
He  leaves  you  to  rest  on  a  seat  of  the  rock, 
Naked  and  bare,  without  comfort  or  care. 
Whilst  I — look  ye  there  ! — have  quilted  and  wadded, 
And  tufted  and  padded  this  cushion  so  neat 
To  serve  for  your  seat !    Rise  now,  let  me  slip 
It  there  under  your  hip,  that  on  board  of  the  ship, 
With  the  toil  of  the  oar,  was  blistered  and  sore, 
Enduring  the  burden  and  heat  of  the  day. 
At  the  battle  of  Salamis  working  away. 

Demus. — Whence  was  it  you  came !    Oh,  tell  me  your  name — 
Your  name  and  your  birth ;  for  your  kindness  and  worth 
Bespeak  you  indeed  of  a  patriot  breed ; 
Of  the  race  of  Harmodius^®  sure  you  must  be, 
So  popular,  gracious  and  friendly  to  me. 

Cleon. — Can  he  win  you  with  ease,  with  such  trifles  as  these  ? 

Sausage-Seller. — With  easier  trifles  you  manage  to  please. 

Cleon. — I  vow  notwithstanding,  that  never  a  man 
Has  acted  since  first  the  republic  began. 
On  a  more  patriotical  popular  plan : 
And  if  any  man  else  can  as  truly  be  said 
The  friend  of  the  people,  I'll  forfeit  my  head ; 
I'll  make  it  a  wager,  and  stand  to  the  pledge. 

Sausage-Seller. — And  what  is  the  token  you  mean  to  allege 
Of  that  friendship  of  yours,  or  the  good  it  insures  ? 
Eight  seasons  are  past  that  he  shelters  his  head 
In  a  barrack,  an  outhouse,  a  hovel,  a  shed, 

^  The  assassin  of  Hipparchus,  canonized   by   the   democratic  fanaticism   of 
the  Athenians. 


THE  KNIGHTS  177 

In  nests  of  the  rock  where  the  vultures  are  bred, 
In  tubs,  and  in  huts  and  the  towers  of  the  wall : 
His  friend  and  protector,  you  witness  it  all ! 
But  where  is  thy  pity,  thou  friend  of  the  city ; 
To  smoke  him  alive,  to  plunder  his  hive? 
And  when  Archeptolemus-'"  came  on  a  mission, 
With  peace  in  his  hand,  with  a  fair  proposition : 
So  drive  them  before  you  with  kicks  on  the  rump, 
Peace,  treaties  and  embassies,  all  in  a  lump ! 

Cleon. — I  did  wisely  and  well ;  for  the  prophecies  tell. 
That  if  he  perseveres,  for  a  period  of  years, 
He  shall  sit  in  Arcadia,  judging  away 
In  splendor  and  honor,  at  five-pence  a  day : 
Meantime  I  can  feed  and  provide  for  his  need ; 
Maintaining  him  wholly,  fairly  and  foully. 
With  jurymen's  pay,  three-pence  a  day. 

Sausage-Seller. — No  vision  or  fancy  prophetic  have  you, 
Nor  dreams  of  Arcadian  empire  in  view  ; 

^•  A  safer  concealment  is  all  that  you  seek : 

In  the  hubbub  of  war,  in  the  darkness  and  reek, 
To  plunder  at  large ;  to  keep  him  confined, 
Passive,  astounded,  humbled,  blind. 
Pining  in  penun,',  looking  to  thee. 
For  his  daily  provision  a  juryman's  fee. 
But  if  he  returns  to  his  country  concerns, 
His  grapes  and  his  figs,  and  his  furmety  kettle, 
You'll  find  him  a  man  of  a  different  mettle. 
When  he  feels  that  your  fees  had  debarred  him  from 

these ; 
He'll  trudge  up  to  town,  looking  eagerly  down. 
And  pick  a  choice  pebble,  and  keep  it  in  view, 
As  a  token  of  spite,*"  for  a  vote  against  you. 
Peace  sinks  you  forever,  you  feel  it  and  know. 
As  your  shifts  and  your  tricks  and  your  prophecies  show. 
Cleon. — 'Tis  a  scandal,  a  shame !  to  throw  slander  and  blame 
On  the  friend  of  the  people !  a  patriot  name, 
A  kinder  protector,  I  venture  to  say, 

•»  After  the  surrender  of  the  Spartans  *"  "  As  a  token  of  spite:"  that  is,  as  a 

at  Pylos.  memorandum  of  anticipated  vengeance. 


lyS  ARISTOPHANES 

Than  ever  Themistocles  was  in  his  day, 
Better  and  kinder  in  every  way. 

Sausage-Seller. — Witness,    ye    deities!    witness    his    blas- 
phemies ! 
You  to  compare  with  Themistocles !  you ! 
That  found  us  exhausted,  and  filled  us  anew 
With  a  bumper  of  opulence ;  carving  and  sharing 
Rich  slices  of  empire;  and  kindly  preparing. 
While  his  guests  were  at  dinner,  a  capital  supper, 
With  a  dainty  remove,  both  under  and  upper, 
The  fort  and  the  harbor,  and  many  a  dish 
Of  colonies,  islands,  and  such  kind  of  fish. 
But  now  we  are  stunted,  our  spirit  is  blunted. 
With  paltry  defences,  and  walls  of  partition ; 
With  silly  pretences  of  poor  superstition ; 
And  yet  you  can  dare,  with  him  to  compare ! 
But  he  lost  the  command,  and  was  banished  the  land, 
While  you  rule  over  all,  and  carouse  in  the  hall ! 

Cleon. — This  is  horrible  quite,  and  his  slanderous  spite, 
Has  no  motive  in  view  but  my  friendship  for  you, 
My  zeal — 

Demus. —  There  have  done  with  your  slang  and  your 

stuff, 
You've  cheated  and  choused  and  cajoled  me  enough. 

Sausage-Seller. — My  dear  little  Demus !  you'll  find  it  is  true. 
He  behaves  like  a  wretch  and  a  villain  to  you. 
He  haunts  your  garden  and  there  he  plies. 
Cropping  the  sprouts  of  the  young  supplies. 
Munching  and  scrunching  enormous  rations 
Of  public  sales  and  confiscations. 

Cleon. — Don't  exult  before  your  time. 

Before  you've  answered  for  your  crime — 
A  notable  theft  that  I  mean  to  prove 
Of  a  hundred  talents  and  above. 

Sausage-Seller. — Why  do  ye  plounce  and  flounce  in  vain? 
Splashing  and  dashing  and  splashing  again. 
Like  a  silly  recruit,  just  clapped  on  board? 
Your  crimes  and  acts  are  on  record : 
The  Mitylenian  bribe  alone 
Was  forty  minse  proved  and  shown. 


THE  KNIGHTS  179 

Chorus. — O  thou,  the  saviour  of  the  State,  with  joy  and  ad- 
miration ! 

We  contemplate  your  happy  fate  and  future  exaltation. 

Doomed  with  the  trident  in  your  hand  to  reign  in  power 
and  glory, 

In  full  career  to  domineer,  to  drive  the  world  before  ye ; 

To  raise  with  ease  and  calm  the  seas,  and  also  raise  a 
fortune, 

While  distant  tribes,  with  gifts  and  bribes,  to  thee  will 
be  resorting. 

Keep  your  advantage,  persevere,  attack  him,  work  him, 
bait  him, 

You'll  over-bawl  him,  never  fear,  and  out-vociferate  him. 
Cleon. — You'll  not  advance ;  you've  not  a  chance,  good  people, 
of  prevailing ; 

Recorded  facts,  my  warlike  acts,  will  muzzle  you  from 
railing ; 

As  long  as  there  remains  a  shield,  of  all  the  trophy  taken 

At  Pylos,  I  can  keep  the  field,  unterrified,  unshaken. 
Sausage-Seller. — Stop  there  a  bit,  don't  triumph  yet — those 
shields  afford  a  handle 

For  shrewd  surmise ;  and  it  implies  a  treasonable  scan- 
dal; 

That  there  they're  placed,  all  strapped  and  braced,  ready 
prepared  for  action ; 

A  plot  it  is !  a  scheme  of  his !  a  project  of  the  faction ! 

Dear  Demus,  he,  most  wickedly,  with  villainous  advise- 
ment, 
V  Prepares  a  force,  as  his  resource,  against  your  just  chas- 
tisement : 

The  curriers  and  the  tanners  all,  with  sundry  crafts  of 
leather, 

Young  lusty  fellows  stout  and  tall,  you  see  them  leagued 
together ; 

And  there  beside  them,  there  abide  cheesemongers  bold 
and  hearty, 

Who  with  the  grocers  are  allied,  to  join  the  tanner's 
party. 

Then  if  you  turn  your  oyster  eye,  with  ostracising  look, 

Those  his  allies,  will  from  the  pegs,  those  very  shields 
unhook  '■ 


l8o  ARISTOPHANES 

Rushing  outright,  at  dark  midnight,  with  insurrection 
sudden, 

To  seize  perforce  the  public  stores,  with  all  your  meal 
and  pudden. 
Demus. — Well  I  declare !  the  straps  are  there !    O  what  a  deep, 
surprising, 

Uncommon  rascal!     What  a  plot  the  wretch  has  been 
devising. 
Cleon. — Hear  and  attend,  my  worthy  friend,  and  don't  directly 
credit 

A  tale  for  truth,  because  forsooth — "  The  man  that  told 
me,  said  it." 

You'll  never  see  a  friend   like  me,  that  well    or  ill  re- 
warded. 

Has  uniformly  done  his  best,  to  keep  you  safely  guarded; 

Watching  and  working  night  and  day,  with  infinite  de- 
tections 

Of  treasons  and  conspiracies,  and  plots  in  all  directions. 
Sausage- Seller. — Yes,  that's  your  course,  your  sole  resource, 
the  same  device  forever. 

As  country  fellows  fishing  eels,  that  in  the  quiet  river. 

Or  the  clear  lake,  have  failed  to  take,  begin  to  poke  and 
muddle, 

And  rouse  and  rout  it  all  about  and  work  it  to  a  puddle 

To  catch  their  game — you  do  the  same  in  the  hubbub  and 
confusion, 

Which  you  create  to  blind  the  State,  with  unobserved 
collusion, 

Grasping  at  ease  your  bribes  and  fees.     But  answer  I 
Tell  me  whether 

You,  that    pretend  yourself  his  friend,  with    all  your 
wealth  in  leather, 

Ever  supplied  a  single  hide,  to  mend  his  reverend  bat- 
tered 

Old  buskins? 
DEikiUS. —  No,  not   he,  by  Jove!     Look  at    them, 

burst  and  tattered ! 
Sausage-Seller. — That  shows  the  man!  now  spick  and  span, 
behold,  my  noble  largess ! 

A  lovely  pair,  bought  for  your  wear,  at  my  own  cost  and 
charges. 


THE  KNIGHTS  l8i 

Demus. — I  see  your  mind  is  well  inclined,  with  views  and  tem- 
per suiting, 

To  place  the  state  of   things  and  toes,  upon  a   proper 
footing. 
Cleon. — What  an  abuse !  a  pair  of  shoes  to  purchase  your  af- 
fection ! 

Whilst  all  my  worth  is  blotted  forth,  raised  from  your 
recollection ; 

That  was  your  guide,  so  proved  and  tried,  that  showed 
myself  so  zealous, 

And  so  severe  this  very  year,  and  of  your  honor  jealous. 

Noting  betimes  all  filthy  crimes,  without  respect  or  pity. 
Sausage-Seller. — He  that's  inclined  to  filth,  may  find  enough 
throughout  the  city: 

A    different    view    determined    you ;    those    infamous 
offenders 

Seemed  in  your  eyes,  likely  to  rise,  aspirants  and  pre- 
tenders ; 

In  bold  debate,  and  ready  prate,  undaunted  rhetoricians ; 

In  impudence  and  influence,  your  rival  politicians. 

But  there  now,  see  !  this  winter  he  might  pass  without  his 
clothing ; 

The  season's  cold,  he's  chilly  and  old ;  but  still  you  think 
of  nothing! 

Whilst  I,  to  show  my  love,  bestow  this  waistcoat,  as  a 
present 

Comely  and  new,  with  sleeves  thereto,  of  flannel  warm 
and  pleasant. 
Demus. — How  strange  it     is!      Themistocles  was    reckoned 
mighty  clever ! 

With  all  his  wit,  he  could  not  hit  on  such  a  project  ever, 

Such  a  device,  so  warm,  so  nice ;  in  short,  it  equals  fairly 

His  famous  wall,  the  port  and  all,  that  he  contrived  so 
rarely. 
Cleon. — To  what  a  pass  you  drive  me,  alas !  to  what  a  vulgar 

level ! 
Sausage- Seller. — 'Tis  your  own  plan ;  'twas  you  began.    As 
topers  at  a  revel, 

Pressed  on  a  sudden,  rise  at  once,  and  seize  without  re- 
garding. 


l82  ARISTOPHANES 

Their  neighbors'  slippers  for  the  nonce,  to  turn  into  the 

garden. 
I  stand,  in    short,  upon  your  shoes — I  copy  your   be- 
havior, 
And  take  and  use,  for  my  own  views,  your  flattery  and 
palaver. 
Cleon. — I  shall  outvie  your  flatteries,  1 1 — see  here  this  costly 
favor ! 
This  mantle !  take  it  for  my  sake — 
Demus. —  Faugh!     what     a 

filthy  flavor ! 
Off  with  it  quick  I  it  makes  me  sick,  it  stinks  of  hides  and 
leather. 
Sausage-Seller. — 'Twas  by  design :  if  you'll  combine  and  put 
the  facts  together, 
Like    his    device    of    Silphium    spice  —  pretending    to 

bedizen 
You  with  a  dress !    'Twas  nothing  less,  than  an  attempt 

to  poison. 
He  sunk  the  price  of  that  same  spice,  and  with  the  same 

intention — 
You  recollect? 
Demus. —  I  recollect  the  circumstance  you  mention. 

Sausage-Seller. — Then    recollect   the  sad    effect! — that   in- 
stance of  the  jury 
All  flushed  and  hot,  fixed  to  the  spot,  exploding  in  a 

fury. 
To  see    them  was  a    scene  of  woe,  in    that  infectious 

smother, 
Winking  and  blinking  in  a  row,  and  poisoning  one  an- 
other. 
Cleon. — Varlet  and  knave!  thou  dirty  slave!  what  trash  have 

you  collected? 
Sausage-Seller. — 'Tis  your  own  cue — I  copy  you.     So  the 

Oracle  directed. 
Cleon. — I'll  match  you  still,  for  I  can  fill  his  pint-pot  of  ap- 
pointment, 
For  holidays  and  working-days." 

"  Donatives    on    festival    days,    when  the  courts   were   closed   and   the  jaiT» 
men's  pay  suspended. 


THE  KNIGHTS  183 

Sausage-Seller. —  But  here's  a  box  of 

ointment — 
A  salve  prescribed  for  heels  when  kibed,  given  with  my 
humble  duty. 
Cleon. — I'll  pick  your  white  hairs  out  of  sight,  and  make  you 

quite  a  beauty. 
Sausage-Seller. — But  here's  a  prize,  for  your  dear  eyes! — a 

rabbit-scut !    See  there  now ! 
Cleon. — Wipe  'em,  and  then,  wipe  it  again,  dear  Demus,  on  my 

hair  now. 
Sausage-Seller. — On  mine,  I  say !    On  mine,  do,  pray ! 
[Demus  bestows,  in  a  careless  manner,  his  dirty  preference 
upon  the  Sausage-Seller.    He  pays  no  attention  to  the 
altercation  which  follows,  hut  remains  in  the  attitude  of 
a  solid  old  juryman,  sitting  upon  a  difficult  cause,  con- 
cocting the  decision  which  he  at  last  pronounces.^ 
Cleon. — I  shall  fit  you  with  a  ship, 

To  provide  for  and  equip. 
One  that  has  been  long  forgotten, 
Leaky,  worm-eaten,  and  rotten, 
On  it  you  shall  waste  and  spend 
Time  and  money  without  end. 
Furthermore,  if  I  prevail, 
It  shall  have  a  rotten  sail. 
Chorus. — There  he's  foaming,  boiling  over: 
See  the  froth  above  the  cover. 
This  combustion  to  allay. 
We  must  take  some  sticks  away, 
Cleon. — I  shall  bring  you  down  to  ruin, 

With  my  summoning  and  suing 
For  arrear  of  taxes  due, 
And  charges  and  assessments  new. 
In  the  census  you  shall  pass 
Rated  in  the  richest  class. 
Sausage-Seller. — I  reply  with  nothing  worse 
Than  this  just  and  righteous  curse. 
May  you  stand  beside  the  stove," 
With  the  fishes  that  you  love, 
Fizzling  in  the  tempting  pan, 

**It  is  to  be  presunied  that  Cleon  is  indulging  himself  in  the  Prjrtaneuni. 

Classics.     Vol.   36—1 


i84  ARISTOPHANES 

A  distracted  anxious  man  ; 
The  Milesian  question  *^  pending, 
Which  you  then  should  be  defending. 
With  a  talent  for  your  hire 
If  you  g^in  what  they  desire. 
Then  their  agent,  in  a  sweat, 
Comes  to  say  the  Assembly's  met ; 
All  in  haste  you  snatch  and  follow. 
And  in  vain  attempt  to  swallow ; 
Running  with  your  gullet  filled, 
Till  we  see  you  choked  and  killed. 
Chorus. — So  be  it,  mighty  Jove !  so  be  it ! 

And  holy  Ceres,  may  I  live  to  see  \t\ 
Demus    Irotising  himself  gradually  from  his  meditation].— 
.   .  .    2n  truth  and  he  seems  to  me,  by  far  the  best — 
The  worthiest  that  has  been  long  since — the  kindest. 
And  best  disposed,  to  the  honest  sober  class 
Of  simple  humble  three-penny  citizens. 
You,  Paphlagonian,  on  the  contrary 
Have  offended  and  incensed  me.    Therefore  now 
Give  back  your  seal  of  office !    You  must  be 
No  more  my  steward! 
Cleon. —  Take  it !  and  withal 

Bear  this  in  mind !    That  he,  my  successor, 
Whoever  he  may  be,  will  prove  a  rascal 
More  artful  and  nefarious  than  myself — 
A  bigger  rogue  be  sure,  and  baser  far ! 
Demus. — This  seal  is  none  of  mine,  or  my  eyes  deceive  me — 

The  figure's  not  the  same !    I'm  sure ! 
Sausage-Seller. —  Let's  see — 

What  was  the  proper  emblem  upon  your  seal  ? 
Demus. — A  sirloin  of  roast  beef — 
Sausage-Seller. —  It  is  not  that — 

Demus. — Not  the  roast  beef !    What  is  it  ? 
Sausage-Seller. —  A  cormorant 

Haranguing  open-mouthed  upon  a  rock  ** — 
Demus. — Oh  mercy! 
Sausage- Seller. —  What's  the  matter? 

*»The   Scholiast   affords   us   bo   light  ♦*  The   Pnyx,   the  place  o!  assembly, 

as  to  the  allusion  to  the  Milesian  ques-        was  called  the  Rock. 
tion. 


THE  KNIGHTS  185 

Demus. —  Away  with  it! 

That  was  Cleonymus's  seal,  not  mine  *^ — 
But  here  take  this,  act  with  it  as  my  steward. 
Cleon. — Not  yet,  sir !  I  beseech  you.    First  permit  me 

To  communicate  some  oracles  I  possess.    ~^ 
Sausage-Seller, — And  me  too,  some  of  mine. 
Cleon. —  Beware  of  them! 

His  oracles  are  most  dangerous  and  infectious ! 
They  strike  ye  with  the  leprosy  and  the  jaundice. 
Sausage-Seller. — And  his  will  give  you  the  itch,  and  a  scald 
head; 
And  the  glanders  and  mad-staggers!  take  my  word  for 
it! 
Cleon. — My  oracles  foretell,  that  you  shall  rule 

Over  all  Greece,  and  wear  a  crown  of  roses. 
Sausage-Seller. — And  mine  foretell,  that  you  shall  wear  a 
robe 
With  golden  spangles,  and  a  crown  of  gold, 
And  ride  in  a  golden  chariot  over  Thrace ; 
In  triumph  with  king  Smicythes  and  his  queen. 
Cleon  [to  the  Sausage-Seller] . — Well,  go  for  'em !  and  bring 

'em !    and  let  him  hear  'em ! 
Sausage-Seller. — Yes,  sure — and  you  too — go  fetch  yours ! 
Cleon. —  Heigh-day ! 

Sausage-Seller. — Heigh-day!     Why  should  not  ye?     What 
should  hinder  ye? 

[Exeunt  Cleon  and  Sausage-Seller. 
Chorus. — Joyful  will  it  be  and  pleasant 

To  the  future  times  and  present. 
The  benignant  happy  day. 

Which  will  shine  on  us  at  last, 
Announcing  with  his  genial  ray, 

That  Cleon  is  condemned  and  cast! 
Notwithstanding  we  have  heard 
From  the  seniors  of  the  city," 
Jurymen  revered  and  feared. 
An  opinion  deep  and  pithy : 

**  Cleonymus's   emblem   is  a  bird,   to  class  of  citizens  who  conceived  that  the 

mark   his  cowardice.     The   bird   is  also  State  had  an  interest  in  supporting  the 

one  of  voracious  habits.  tyrannical  exactions  of  Cleon. 

*•  There  was  a  portion   of  the  lower 


i86  ARISTOPHANES 

That  the  State  for  household  use 

Wants  a  pestle  and  a  mortar; 
That  Cleon  serves  to  pound  and  bruise, 

Or  else  our  income  would  run  shorter^ 
But  I  was  told,  the  boys  at  school 
Observed  it  as  a  kind  of  rule, 

That  he  never  could  be  made 
By  any  means  to  play  the  lyre, 

Till  he  was  well  and  truly  paid— 
I  mean  with  lashes  for  his  hire. 

At  length  his  master  all  at  once 

Expelled  him  as  an  utter  dunce ; 

As  by  nature  ill  inclined, 

And  wanting  gifts  of  every  kind. 

'Re-enter  Cleon  and  the  Sausage-Seller — Cleon  with  a  large 
packet  and  the  Sausage-Seller  staggering  under  a  por- 
ter's load. 

Cleon    [to  Demus]. — Well,  there's  a  bundle  you   see,  I've 
brought  of  'em; 

But  that's  not  all ;  there's  more  of  them  to  come — 
Sausage- Seller. — I  grunt  and  sweat,  you  see,  with  the  load 
of  'em ; 

But  that's  not  all ;  there's  more  of  'em  to  come. 
Demus. — But  what  are  these  ? — all  ? 
Cleon. —  Oracles. 

Demus.—  What,  all? 

Cleon. — Ah,  you're  surprised,  it  seems,  at  the  quantity  I 

That's  nothing;   I've  a  trunk  full  of  'em  at  home. 
Sausage- Seller. — ^And  I've  a  garret  and  out-house  both  brim- 
ful. 
Demus. — Let's  give  'em  a  look.    Whose  oracles  are  these? 
Cleon. — Bakis's  mine  are. 

Demus  [to  the  Sausage-Seller], — Well,  and  whose  are  yours? 
Sausage- Seller. — Mine  are  from  Glanis,  Bakis's  elder  brother. 
Demus. — And  what  are  they  all  about? 
Cleon. —  About  the  Athenians, 

About  the  Island  of  Pylos — about  myself — 

About  yourself — ^about  all  kinds  of  things. 
Demus. — ^And  what  are  yours  about? 


THE  KNIGHTS  187 

Sausage- Seller. —  About  the  Athenians — 

About  pease-pudding  and  porridge — about  the   Spar- 
tans— 
About  the  war — about  the  pilchard  fishery — 
About  the  state  of  things  in  general — 
About  short  weights  and  measures  in  the  market — 
About  all  things  and  persons  whatsoever — 
About  yourself  and  me.     Bid  him  go  whistle. 

Demus. — Come,  read  thi;m  out  then !  that  one  in  particular, 
My  favorite  one  of  all,  about  the  eagle ; 
About  my  being  an  eagle  in  the  clouds. 

Cleon. — Listen  then!    Give  your  attention  to  the  Oracle! 
"  Son  of  Erechtheus,  mark  and  ponder  well, 
This  holy  warning  from  Apollo's  cell. 
It  bids  thee  cherish,  him  the  sacred  whelp ; 
Who  for  thy  sake  doth  bite  and  bark  and  yelp. 
Guard  and  protect  him  from  the  chattering  jay; 
So  shall  thy  juries  all  be  kept  in  pay." 

Demus. — That's  quite  above  me !    Erechtheus  and  a  whelp ! 
What  should  Erechtheus  do  with  a  whelp  or  a  jay  ? 
What  does  it  mean  ?  *'' 

Cleon. —  The  meaning  of  it  is  this : 

I  am  presignified  as  a  dog,  who  barks 
And  watches  for  you.    Apollo  therefore  bids  you 
Cherish  the  sacred  whelp — meaning  myself. 

Sausage-Seller. — I  tell  ye,  the  Oracle  means  no  such  thing: 
This  whelp  has  gnawed  the  corner  off ;  but  here, 
I've  a  true  perfect  copy. 

Demus. —  Read  it  out  then! 

Meanwhile  I'll  pick  a  stone  up  for  the  nonce. 
For  fear  the  dog  in  the  Oracle  should  bite  me. 

Sausage-Seller. — "  Son  of  Erechtheus,  'ware  the  gap-toothed 
dog, 
The  crafty  mongrel  that  purloins  thy  prog ; 
Fawning  at  meals,  and  filching  scraps  away, 
The  whilst  you  gape  and  stare  another  way ; 
He  prowls  by  night,  and  pilfers  many  a  prize, 
Amidst  the  sculleries  and  the  colonies." 

"Discussions  on  the  genuine  and  cor-        quent;  we  find  an  instance  in  Thucyd- 
rupt  copies  of  oracles  were  not  unfre-        ides. 


i88  ARISTOPHANES 

Demus. — Well,  Glanis  has  the  best  of  it,  I  declare. 
Cleon. — First  listen,  my  good  friend,  and  then  decide: 
"  In  sacred  Athens  shall  a  woman  dwell, 

Who  shall  bring  forth  a  lion  fierce  and  fell; 

This  lion  shall  defeat  the  gnats  and  flies, 

Which  are  that  noble  nation's  enemies. 

Him  you  must  guard  and  keep  for  public  good. 

With  iron  bulwarks  and  a  wall  of  wood." 
Demus  [to  the  Sausage-Seller]. — D'ye  understand  it? 
Sausage-Seller. —  No,  not  I,  by  Jove ! 

Cleon. — Apollo  admonishes  you,  to  guard  and  keep  me ; 

I  am  the  lion  here  alluded  to. 
Demus. — A  lion !    Why  just  now  you  were  a  dog ! 
Sausage-Seller. — Aye,  but  he  stifles  the  true  sense  of  it, 

Designedly — that  "  wooden  and  iron  wall," 

In  which  Apollo  tells  ye  he  should  be  kept. 
Demus. — What  did  the  deity  mean  by  it?    What  d'ye  think? 
Sausage-Seller. — To  have  him  kept  in  the  pillory  and  the 

stocks. 
Demus. — That  prophecy  seems  likely  to  be  verified. 
Cleon. — "  Heed  not  their  strain ;  for  crows  and  daws  abound. 

But  love  your  faithful  hawk,  victorious  found. 

Who  brought  the  Spartan  magpies  tied  and  bound." 
Sausage-Seller. — "  The  Paphlagonian,  impudent  and  rash, 

Risked  that  adventure  in  a  drunken  dash. 

0  simple  son  of  Cecrops,  ill  advised ! 

1  see  desert  in  arms  unfairly  prized : 
Men  only  can  secure  and  kill  the  game; 
A  woman's  deed  it  is  to  cook  the  same." 

Cleon. — Do  listen  at  least  to  the  Oracle  about  Pylos : 
"  Pylos  there  is  behind,  and  eke  before,** 

The  bloody  Pylos." 
Demus. —  Let  me  hear  no  more ! 

Those  Pyloses  are  my  torment  evermore. 
Sausage-Seller. — But  here's  an  Oracle  which  you  must  attend 
to; 

About  the  navy — a  very  particular  one, 
Demus. — Yes,  I'll  attend — I  wish  it  would  tell  me  how 

To  pay  my  seamen  their  arrears  of  wages. 

**  There  were    three  places    of   this  name,  not  very  distant  from  each  otter. 


THE  KNIGHTS  189 

Sausage- Seller. — "  O  son  of  Egeus,  ponder  and  beware 

Of  the  dog-fox,  so  crafty,  lean,  and  spare, 

Subtle  and  swift."    Do  ye  understand  it  ? 
Demus. —  Yes ! 

Of  course  the  dog-fox  ^"  means  Philostratus. 
Sausage- Seller. — That's  not  the  meaning — but  the  Paphla- 
gonian 

Is  always  urging  you  to  send  out  ships ; 

Cruising  about  exacting  contributions ; 

A  thing  that  Apollo  positively  forbids. 
Dkiius. — But  why  are  the  ships  here  called  dog-foxes? 
Sausage-Seller. —  Why? 

Because  the  ships  are  swift,  and  dogs  are  swift. 
Demus. — But  what  has  a  fox  to  do  with  it?    Why  dog-foxes 8 
Sausage- Seller. — The  fox  is  a  type  of  the  ship's  crew ;  ma- 
rauding 

And  eating  up  the  vineyards. 
Demus. —  Well,  so  be  it! 

But  how  are  my  foxes  to  get  paid  their  wages  ? 
Sausage-Seller. — I'll   settle  it  all,  and  make  provision    for 
them, 

Three  days'  provision,  presently.     Only  now. 

This  instant,  let  me  remind  you  of  an  Oracle : 
"  Beware  Cullene." 
Demus. —  What's  the  meaning  of  it? 

Sausage-Seller. — Cullene,  in  the  sense  I  understand, 

Implies  a  kind  of  a  culling,  asking  hand — 

The  coiled  hand  of  an  informing  bully, 

Culling  a  bribe  from  his  affrighted  cully ,^'^ 

A  hand  like  his. 
Cleon. —  No,  no!    you're  quite  mistaken. 

It  alludes  to  Diopithes's  lame  hand."^ 
"  But  here's  a  glorious  prophecy  which  sings. 

How  you  shall  rule  on  earth,  and  rank  with  kings, 

And  soar  aloft  in  air  on  eagle's  wings." 

"The  doR  was  (in  a  bad   sense)   the  pose    of   extortion,    had    an    established 

tvpe  of  impudence-  the  fox  of  cunninR;  token   (the  hand   hollowed   and   slipped 

I'hilostratus,  the  compound  of  the  two,  out  beneath  the  cloak),   indicating  tlmt 

gained    his    subsistence    by    a   very    in-  they  were  willing  to  desist  for  a  piece 

famous  trade.  of  money. 

«>  The  Scholiast  tells  us  that  the  com-  "  As  a  soothsayer  he  ought  to  hav« 

mon  informer  at   Athens,  when  accost-  been  free  from  any  bodily  defect, 
ing  and  threatening  persons  for  the  pur- 


19©  ARISTOPHANES 

Sausage-Seller. — "  And  some  of  mine  foretell  that  you  shall 
be, 

Sovereign  of  all  the  world  and  the  Red  Sea ; 

And  sit  on  juries  in  Ecbatana, 

Munching  sweet  buns  and  biscuit  all  the  day." 

Cleon. — "  But  me  Minerva  loves,  and  I  can  tell 
Of  a  portentous  vision  that  befell — 
The  goddess  in  my  sleep  appeared  to  me, 
Holding  a  flagon,  as  it  seemed  to  be, 
From  which  she  poured  upon  the  old  man's  crown 
Wealth,  health,  and  peace,  like  ointment  running  down." 

Sausage-Seller. — "  And  I  too  dreamt  a  dream,  and  it  was  this : 
Minerva  came  from  the  Acropolis, 
There  came  likewise,  her  serpent  and  her  owl ; 
And  in  her  hand  she  held  a  certain  bowl ; 
And  poured  ambrosia  on  the  old  man's  head, 
And  salt-fish  pickle  upon  yours  instead." 

Demus. — Well,  Glanis  is  the  cleverest  after  all. 

And  therefore  I'm  resolved,  from  this  time  forth, 
To  put  myself  into  your  charge  and  keeping; 
To  be  tended  in  my  old  age  and  taken  care  of. 

Cleon. — No,  do  pray  wait  a  little ;  and  see  how  regularly 
I'll  furnish  you  with  a  daily  dole  of  barley. 

Demus. — Don't  tell  me  of  barley !    I  can't  bear  to  hear  of  it ! 
I've  been  cajoled  and  choused  more  than  enough, 
By  Thouphanes  ^^  and  yourself  this  long  time  past. 

Cleon. — Then  I'll  provide  you  delicate  wheaten  flour. 

Sausage-Seller. — And  I'll  provide  you  manchets,  and  roast 
meat. 
And  messes  piping  hot  that  cry  "  Come  eat  me." 

Demus. — Make  haste  then,  both  of  ye.    Whatever  you  do— 
And  whichever  of  the  two  befriends  me  most, 
I'll  give  him  up  the  management  of  the  State. 

Cleon. — Well,  I'll   be  first  then. 

Sausage-Seller. —  No,  you  sha'n't,  'tis  I. 

{Both  run  off;  but  the  Sausage-Seller  contrives  to  get  the  start. 

Chorus. —  Worthy  Demus !  your  estate 

Is  a  glorious  thing  we  own — 
The  haughtiest  of  the  proud  and  great 
Watch  and  tremble  at  your  frown ; 

•*  An  adherent  of  Cleon. 


THE  KNIGHTS  191 

Like  a  sovereign  or  a  chief, 
But  so  easy  of  belief. 

Every  fawning  rogue  and  thief 

Finds  you  ready  to  his  hand, 

Flatterers  you  cannot  withstand. 

To  them  your  confidence  is  lent, 

With  opinions  always  bent 

To  what  your  last  advisers  say, 

Your  noble  mind  is  gone  astray. 
Demus. — Those  brains  of  yours  are  weak  and  green; 

My  wits  are  sound  whate'er  ye  say : 
*Tis  nothing  but  my  froward  spleen 

That  affects  this  false  decay : 

'Tis  my  fancy,  'tis  my  way, 

To  drawl  and  drivel  through  the  day. 

But  though  you  see  me  dote  and  dream, 

Never  think  me  what  I  seem ! 

For  my  confidential  slave 

I  prefer  a  pilfering  knave ; 

And  when  he's  pampered  and  full-blown; 

I  snatch  him  up  and — dash  him  down! 
Chorus. — We  approve  of  your  intent, 

If  you  spoke  it  as  you  meant; 

If  you  keep  them  like  the  beasts. 

Fattened  for  your  future  feasts. 

Pampered  in  the  public  stall. 

Till  the  next  occasion  call ; 

Then  a  little  easy  vote 

Knocks  them  down,  and  cuts  their  throat; 

And  you  dish  and  serve  them  up, 

As  you  want  to  dine  or  sup. 
Demus. — Mark  me! — When  I  seem  to  doze. 

When  my  wearied  eyelids  close; 

Then  they  think  their  tricks  are  hid: 

But  beneath  the  drooping  lid, 

Still  I  keep  a  corner  left, 

Tracing  every  secret  theft. 
I  shall  match  them  by  and  by! 

All  the  rogues,  you  think  so  sly, 

All  the  deep  intriguing  set, 


I9S  ARISTOPHANES 

Are  but  dancing  in  a  net,"*' 

Till  I  purge  their  stomachs  clean 

With  the  hemlock  and  the  bean. 

The  Sausage-Seller  a'ttd  Clean  re-enter  separately. 

Cleon. — Get  out  there ! 

Sausage-Seller. —  You,  get  out  yourself !  you  rascal ! 

Cleon. — O  Demus !  here  have  I  been  waiting,  ready 

To  attend  upon  ye  and  serve  ye,  a  long,  long  time. 
Sausage-Seller. — And   I've  been  waiting  a  longer,  longer 
time — 

Ever  so  long — a  great  long  while  ago. 
Demus. — And  I've  been  waiting  here  cursing  ye  both, 

A  thousand  times,  a  long,  long  time  ago. 
Sausage-Seller. — You  know  what  you're  to  do? 
Demus. —  Yes,  yes,  I  know ; 

But  you  may  tell  me,  however,  notwithstanding. 
Sausage-Seller. — Make  it  a  race,  and  let  us  start  to  serve 
you, 

And  win  your  favor  without  loss  of  time. 
Demus. — So  be  it.    Start  now — one !  two !  three ! 
Cleon. —  Heigh-day ! 

Demus. — Why  don't  you  start? 

Cleon. —  He's  cheated  and  got  before  me. 

[Exit. 
Demus. — Well  truly  indeed  I  shall  be  feasted  rarely ; 

My  courtiers  and  admirers  will  quite  spoil  me. 
Cleon. — There.  I'm  the  first  you  see  to  bring  ye  a  chair. 
Sausage-Seller. — But  a  table.    Here  I've  brought  it,  first  and 

foremost. 
Cleon. — See  here  this  little  half-meal  cake  from  Pylos, 

Made  from  the  flour  of  victory  and  success. 
Sausage-Seller. — But  here's  a  cake!    see  here!    which  the 
heavenly  goddess 

Patted  and  flatted  herself,  with  her  ivory  hand, 

For  your  own  eating. 
Demus. —  Wonderful,  mighty  goddess! 

What  an  awfully  large  hand  she  must  have  had ! 

"  Persons  subject  to  an  effectual  re-        unaware,  were  said  to  be  dancimg  in  a 
straint,  of  which  they  were  themselves        net. 


THE  KNIGHTS  193 

Cleon. — See  this  pease-pudding,  which  the  warlike  virgin 

Achieved  at  Pylos,  and  bestows  upon  you. 
Sausage-Seller. — The  goddess  upholds  your  whole  establish- 
ment, 

And  holds  this  mess  pf  porridge  over  your  head. 
Demus. — I  say  the  establishment  could  not  subsist 

For  a  single  hour,  unless  the  goddess  upheld 

The  porridge  of  our  affairs,  most  manifestly. 
Cleon. — She,  the  dread  virgin  who  delights  in  battle. 

And  storm  and  battery,  sends  this  batter-pudding. 
Sausage-Seller. — This    savory    stew,    with    comely    sippets 
decked, 

Is  sent  you  by  the  Gorgon-bearing  goddess, 

Who  bids  you  gorge  and  gormandize  thereon. 
Cleon. — The  daughter  of  Jove  arrayed  in  panoply 

Presents  you  a  pancake  to  create  a  panic 

Amongst  your  enemies. 
Sausage-Seller. —  And  by  me  she  sends 

For  your  behoof  this  dainty  dish  of  fritters, 

Well  fried,  to  strike  your  foemen  with  affright ; 

And  here's  a  cup  of  wine — taste  it  and  try. 
Demus. — It's  capital,  faith ! 
Sausage-Seller. —  And  it  ought  to  be ;   for  Pallas 

Mixed  it  herself  expressly  for  your  palate. 
Cleon. — This  slice  of  rich  sweet-cake,  take  it  from  me. 
Sausage-Seller. — This  whole  great  rich  sweet-cake,  take  it 

from  me. 
Cleon  [to  the  Satisage-Scller]. — Ah,  but  hare-pie — where  will 

you  get  hare-pie? 
Sausage-Seller    [aside], — Hare-pie!     What    shall    I    do! — 
Come,  now's  the  time, 

Now  for  a  nimble,  knowing,  dashing  trick. 
Cleon  [to  the  Sausage-Seller,  showing  the  dish  zvhich  he  is 
going  to  present]. — Look  there,  you  poor  rap- 
scallion, 
Sausage-Seller. —  Pshaw !  no  matter. 

I've  people  of  my  own  there  in  attendance. 

They're  coming  here — I  see  them. 
Cleon.—  Who?    What  are  they? 

Sausage-Seller. — Envoys  vrith  bags  of  money. 


194 


ARISTOPHANES 


[Cleon  sets  down  his  hare-pie,  and  runs  off  the  stage  to  in' 

tcrcept  the  supposed  envoys.] 
Cleon. —  Where?    Where  are  they? 

Where?    Where? 
Sausage-Seller. —       What's  that  to  you  ?    Can't  ye  be  civil  ? 

Why  don't  you  let  the  foreigners  alone? 

There's  a  hare-pie,  my  dear  own  little  Demus, 

A  nice  hare-pie,  I've  brought  ye!    See,  look  there! 
Cleon  [returning]. — By  Jove,  he's  stolen  it,  and  served  it  up. 
Sausage-Seller. — Just  as  you  did  the  prisoners  at  Pylos. 
Demus. — Where  did  ye  get  it?     How  did  ye  steal  it?     Tell 

me. 
Sausage-Seller. — The  scheme  and  the  suggestion  were  di- 
vine, 

The  theft  and  the  execution  simply  mine. 
Cleon. — I  took  the  trouble. 
Sausage-Seller. —  But  I  served  it  up. 

Demus. — Well,  he  that  brings  the  thing  must  get  the  thanks. 
Cleon  [aside], — Alas,  I'm  circumvented  and  undone 

Out-faced  and  over-impudentified. 
Sausage-Seller. — Come,  Demus,  had  not  you  best  decide  at 
once. 

Which  is  your  truest  friend,  and  best  disposed 

To  the  interest  of  the  State,  to  your  belly  and  you. 
Demus. — But  how  can  I  decide  it  cleverly? 

Which  would  the  audience  think  is  the  cleverest  way? 
Sausage- Seller. — I'll  tell  ye;    take  my  chest  and  search  it 
fairly, 

Then  search  the  Paphlagonian's  and  determine. 
Demus. — Let's  look ;  what's  here  ? 
Sausage-Seller. —  It's  empty,  don't  you  see? 

My  dear  old  man,  I've  given  you  everything. 
Demus. — Well,  here's  a  chest  indeed,  in  strict  accordance 

With  the  judgment  of  the  public;   perfectly  empty! 
Sausage-Seller. — Come  now,  let's  rummage  out  the  Paphla- 
gonian's. 

See  there ! 
Demus. — Oh  bless  me,  what  a  hoard  of  dainties ! 

And  what  a  lump  of  cake  the  fellow  has  kept, 

Compared  with  the  little  tiny  slice  he  gave  me. 


THE  KNIGHTS  195 

Sausage-Seller. — That  was  his  common  practice ;  to  pretend 

To  make  you  presents,  giving  up  a  trifle, 

To  keep  the  biggest  portion  for  himself. 
Demus. — O  villain,  how  you've  wronged  and  cheated  me ; 

Me  that  have  honored  ye,  and  have  made  ye  presents. 
Cleon. — I  stole  on  principle  for  the  public  service. 
Demus. — Pull  off  your  garland — g^ve  it  back  to  me. 

For  him  to  wear ! 
Sausage-Seller. —  Come,  sirrah,  give  it  back  I 

Cleon. — Not  so.    There  still  remains  an  Oracle, 

Which  marks  the  fatal  sole  antagonist, 

Predestined  for  my  final  overthrow. 
Sausage-Seller. — Yes!    And  it  points  to  me,  my  name  and 

person ! 
Cleon. — Yet  would  I  fain  inquire  and  question  you ; 

How  far  the  signs  and  tokens  of  the  prophecy 

Combine  in  your  behalf.    Answer  me  truly ! 

What  was  your  early  school  ?    Where  did  you  learn 

The  rudiments  of  letters  and  of  music? 
Sausage-Seller. — Where  hogs  are  singed  and  scalded  in  the 
shambles. 

There  was  I  pommelled  to  a  proper  tune. 
Cleon. — Ha,  say'st  thou  so?   this  prophecy  begins 

To  bite  me  to  the  soul  with  deep  forebodings. 

Yet  tell  me  again — What  was  your  course  of  practice 

In  feats  of  strength  and  skill  at  the  Palaestra? 
Sausage-Seller. — Stealing  and  staring,  perjuring  and  swear- 
ing. 
Cleon. — O  mighty  Apollo,  your  decree  condemns  me ! 

Say,  what  was  your  employment  afterwards  ? 
Sausage-Seller. — I  practised  as  a  Sausage-Seller  chiefly, 

Occasionally  as  pimp  and  errand-boy. 
Cleon. — Oh  misery!  lost  and  gone!  totally  lost! 

One  single  hope  remains,  a  feeble  thread, 

I  grasp  it  to  the  last.    Yet  answer  me : 

What  was  your  place  of  sale  for  sausages  ? 

Was  it  the  market  or  the  city  gate  ? 
Sausage-Seller. — The  city  gate !    Where  salted  fish  are  sold ! 
Cleon. — Out!  out  alas!  my  destiny  is  fulfilled: 

Hurry  me  hence  within  with  quick  conveyance. 


196  ARISTOPHANES 

The  wreck  and  ruin  of  my  former  self. 
Farewell  my  name  and  honors  1    Thou,  my  garland, 
Farewell !  my  successor  must  wear  you  now, 
To  shine  in  new  pre-eminence — a  rogue, 
Perhaps  less  perfect,  but  more  prosperous! 
Sausage-Seller. — O  Jove !    Patron  of  Greece !   the  praise  be 

thine ! 
Demosthenes. — I  wish  you  joy  most  heartily ;  and  I  hope. 
Now  you're  promoted,  you'll  remember  me. 
For  helping  you  to  advancement.    All  I  ask 
Is  Phanus's  place  to  be  under-scrivener  to  you. 
Demus   [to  the  Sausage-Seller]. — You  tell  me  what's  your 

name? 
Sausage-Seller. —    Agoracritus ; 

So  called  from  the  Agora  where  I  got  my  living. 
Demus. — With  you  then,  Agoracritus,  in  your  hands 
I  place  myself ;  and  furthermore  consign 
This  Paphlagonian  here  to  your  disposal. 
Sausage-Seller. — Then  you  shall  find  me,  a  most  aflfectionate 
And  faithful  guardian ;  the  best  minister 
That  ever  served  the  sovereign  of  the  Cockneys. 

[Exeunt  Omnes. 
Chorus.* — To  record  to  future  years 

The  lordly  wealthy  charioteers. 
Steeds,  and  cars,  and  crowns  victorious. 
These  are  worthy  themes  and  glorious. 

Let  the  Muse  refrain  from  malice. 
Nor  molest  with  idle  sallies 
Him  the  poor  Lysistratus ; 
Taunted  for  his  empty  purse, 
Every  penny  gone  and  spent. 
Lately  with  Thaumantis  sent 
On  a  Delphic  embassy, 
With  a  tear  in  either  eye. 
Clinging  to  the  deity 
To  bemoan  his  misery. 

•The    actors    being    withdrawn,    the  lampoon  upon  Lysistratus,  who  having 

Chorus   remain   again   in   possession   of  reduced    himself    to    poverty    had    pro- 

the  theatre.    Their  first  song  is  a  parody  cured  (by  the  assistance  of  his  friends) 

from  Pindar,  which  is  converted  into  a  a  lucrative  appointment  at  Delphi. 


THE  KNIGHTS  197 


Epirrhema.* 

To  revile  the  vile,  has  ever  been  accounted  just  and  right, 
The  business  of  the  comic  bard,  his  proper  office,  his 

delight. 
On  the  villainous  and  base,  the  lashes  of  invective  fall ; 
While  the  virtuous  and  the  good  are  never  touched  or 

harmed  at  all. 
Thus,  without  oflfence,  to  mark  a  profligate  and  wicked 

brother, 
For  the  sake  of  explanation,  I  proceed  to  name  another : 
One  is  wicked  and  obscure,  the  brother  unimpeached  and 

glorious, 
Eminent  for  taste  and  art,  a  person  famous  and  notorious. 
Arignotus — when  I  name  him,  you  discern  at  once,  with 

ease. 
The  viler  and  obscurer  name,  the  person  meant — Ariph- 

rades. 
If  he  were  a  rascal  only  we  should  let  the  wretch  alone. 
He's  a  rascal,  and  he  knows  it,  and  desires  it  to  be 

known. 
Still  we  should  not  have  consented  to  lampoon  him  into 

vogue. 
As  an  ordinary  rascal,  or  a  villain,  or  a  rogue ; 
But  the  wretch  is  grown  inventive,  eager  to  descend  and 

try 
Undiscovered,  unattempted  depths  of  filth  and  infamy ; 
With  his  nastiness  and  lewdness,  going  on  from  bad  to 

worse. 
With  his  verses  and  his  music,  and  his  friend  Oionychus. 
Jolly  friends  and  mates  of  mine,  when  with  me  you 

quench  your  thirst. 
Spit  before  you  taste  the  wine — spit  upon  the  fellow  first 
Meditating  on  my  bed, 
Strange  perplexities  are  bred 
In  my  weary,  restless  head. 
I  contemplate  and  discuss 

•An  attempt  is  here  made  to  express  crs  is  a  piece  of  dry  irony.  In  other 
what  the  Scholiast  points  out;  namely,  respects  the  original  is  hardly  capable 
that  the  contrast  between  the  two  broth-        of  translation. 


198  ARISTOPHANES 

The  nature  of  Cleonymus, 
All  the  modes  of  his  existence, 
His  provision  and  subsistence. 
His  necessities  and  wants, 
And  the  houses  that  he  haunts, 
Till  the  master  of  the  table, 
Accosts  him  like  the  gods  in  fable, 
Manifested  and  adored 
At  Baucis's  and  Philemon's  board — 
"  Mighty  sovereign !     Mighty  lord ! 
Leave  us  in  mercy  and  grace.    Forbear! 
Our  frugal  insufficient  fare, 
Pardon  it !  and  in  mercy  spare !  '* 

Antepirrhema. 

Our  Triremes,  I  was  told,  held  a  conference  of  late, 

One,  a  bulky  dame  and  old,  spoke  the  first  m  the  debate : 
*'  Ladies,  have  you  heard  the  news  ?  In  the  town  it  passed 
for  truth, 

That  a  certain  lowbred  upstart,  one  Hyperbolus  for- 
sooth. 

Asks  a  hundred  of  our  number,  with  a  further  proposi- 
tion, 

That  we  should  sail  with  him  to  Carthage  ^*  on  a  secret 
expedition." 

They  all  were  scandalized  and  shocked  to  hear  so  wild  a 
project  planned, 

A  virgin  vessel  newly  docked,  but  which  never  had  been 
manned. 

Answered  instantly  with  anger,  "If  the  Fates  will  not 
afford  me, 

Some  more  suitable  proposal,  than  that  wretch  to  come 
aboard  me, 

I  would  rather  rot  and  perish,  and  remain  from  year  to 
year. 

Till  the  worms  have  eat  my  bottom,  lingering  in  the  har- 
bor here. 

••Carthage,  in  this  instance,  may  ad-        beyond    the    speculations    of    Atbeman 
mit  of  a  doubt,  but  it  was  by  no  means        ambition  at  that  time. 


THE  KNIGHTS  199 

No,  thank  heaven,  for  such  a  master  Nauson's  daughter 

is  too  good ; 
And  if  my  name  were  not  Nauphantis,  I  am  made  of 

nails  and  wood. 
I  propose  then  to  retire  in  sanctuary  to  remain 
Near  the  temple  of  the  Furies,  or  to  Theseus  and  his  fane. 
Still  the  project  may  proceed ;  Hyperbolus  can  never  fail. 
He  may  launch  the  trays  of  wood,  in  which  his  lamps 

were  set  to  sale." 

Enter  Agoracritus  (the  Sausage-Seller). 
Agoracritus. — Peace  be  amongst  you!     Silence!    Peace! 

Close  the  courts ;  let  pleading  cease ! 

All  your  customary  joys. 

Juries,  accusers,  strife  and  noise ! 

Be  merry,  I  say !    Let  the  theatre  ring 

With  a  shout  of  applause  for  the  news  that  I  bring. 
Chorus. — O  thou  the  protector  and  hope  of  the  State, 

Of  the  isles  and  allies  of  the  city,  relate 

What  happy  event,  do  you  call  us  to  greet. 

With  bonfire  and  sacrifice  filling  the  street. 
Agoracritus. — Old  Demus  within  has  moulted  his  skin ; 

I've  cooked  him,  and  stewed  him,  to  render  him  stronger, 

Many  years  younger,  and  shabby  no  longer. 
Chorus. — Oh,  what  a  change  I    How  sudden  and  strange  1 

But  where  is  he  now  ? 
Agoracritus. —  On  the  citadel's  brow, 

In  the  lofty  old  town  of  immortal  renown, 

With  the  noble  Ionian  violet  crown. 
Chorus. — What  was  his  vesture,  his  figure  and  gesture? 

How  did  you  leave  him,  and  how  does  he  look? 
Agoracritus. — Joyous  and  bold,  as  when  feasting  of  old, 

When  his  battles  were  ended,  triumphant  and  splendid, 

With  Miltiades  sitting  carousing  at  rest. 

Or  good  Aristides  his  favorite  guest. 

You  shall  see  him  here  strait ;   for  the  citadel  gate 

Is  unbarred ;  and  the  hinges — you  hear  how  they  grate ! 

[The  scene  changes  to  a  view  of  the  Propylccuvi.] 

Give  a  shout  for  the  sight  of  the  rocky  old  height ! 
And  the  worthy  old  wight,  that  inhabits  within  1 


20O  ARISTOPHANES 

Chorus. — Thou  glorious  hill!   pre-eminent  still 

For  splendor  of  empire  and  honor  and  worth! 
Exhibit  him  here,  for  the  Greeks  to  revere ; 
Their  patron  and  master  the  monarch  of  earth ! 

Agoracritus. — There,  see  him,  behold !  with  the  jewels  of  gold 
Entwined  in  his  hair,  in  the  fashion  of  old ; 
Not  dreaming  of  verdicts  or  dirty  decrees ; 
But  lordly,  majestic,  attired  at  his  ease, 
Perfuming  all  Greece  with  an  odor  of  peace. 

Chorus. — We  salute  you,  and  greet  you,  and  bid  you  rejoice; 
With  unanimous  heart,  with  unanimous  voice, 
Our  sovereign  lord,  in  glory  restored, 
Returning  amongst  us  in  royal  array. 
Worthy  the  trophies  of  Marathon's  day ! 

[Demus  comes  forward  in  his  splendid  old-fashioned  attire:  the 
features  of  his  mask  are  changed  to  those  of  youth,  and 
his  carriage  throughout  this  scene  is  marked  with  the 
characteristics  of  youth,  warmth,  eagerness,  and  occa- 
sional bashfulness  and  embarrassment.] 

Demus. — My  dearest  Agoracritus,  come  here — 
I'm  so  obliged  to  you  for  your  cookery ! 
I  feel  an  altered  man,  you've  quite  transformed  me. 

Agoracritus. — What!    I?     That's  nothing;    if  you  did  but 
know 
The  state  you  were  in  before,  you'd  worship  me. 

Demus. — What  was  I  doing?    How  did  I  behave? 
Do  tell  me — inform  against  me — let  me  know, 

Agoracritus. — Why  first,  then :   if  an  orator  in  the  Assembly 
Began  with  saying,  Demus,  I'm  your  friend, 
Your  faithful  zealous  friend,  your  only  friend, 
You  used  to  chuckle,  and  smirk,  and  hold  your  head  up. 

Demus. — No  sure ! 

Agoracritus. — So  he  gained  his  end,  and  bilked  and  choused 
ye. 

Demus. — But  did  not  I  perceive  it?    Was  not  I  told? 

Agoracritus. — By  Jove,  and  you  wore  those  ears  of  yours  con- 
tinually 
Wide  open  or  close  shut,  like  an  umbrella. 

Demus. — Is  it  possible?    Was  I  indeed  so  mere  a  driveller 
In  my  old  age,  so  superannuated  ? 


THE  KNIGHTS  90I 

Agoracritus. — Moreover,  if  a  couple  of  orators 

Were  pleading  in  your  presence ;  one  proposing 

To  equip  a  fleet,  his  rival  arguing 

To  get  the  same  supplies  distributed 

To  the  jurymen,  the  patron  of  the  juries 

Carried  the  day.    But  why  do  you  hang  your  head  so? 

What  makes  you  shuffle  about  ?    Can't  ye  stand  still  ? 
Demus. — I  feel  ashamed  of  myself  and  all  my  follies. 
Agoracritus. — 'Twas  not  your  fault — don't  think  of  it.    Your 
advisers 

Were  most  to  blame.    But  for  the  future — tell  me, 

If  any  rascally  villainous  orator 

Should  address  a  jury  with  such  words  as  these: 
"  Remember,  if  you  acquit  the  prisoner 

Your  daily  food  and  maintenance  are  at  stake," 

How  would  you  treat  such  a  pleader?    Answer  me. 
Demus. — I  should  toss  him  headlong  into  the  public  pit, 

With  a  halter  round  his  gullet,  and  Hyperbolus 

Tied  fast  to  the  end  of  it. 
Agoracritus. —  That's  a  noble  answer  I 

Wise  and  judicious,  just  and  glorious! 

Now  tell  me,  in  other  respects,  how  do  you  mean 

To  manage  your  affairs  ? 
Demus. —  Why  first  of  all 

I'll  have  the  arrears  of  seamen's  wages  paid 

To  a  penny,  the  instant  they  return  to  port. 
Agoracritus. — There's  many  a  worn-out  rump  will  bless  ye 

and  thank  ye. 
Demus. — Moreover,  no  man  that  has  been  enrolled 

Upon  the  list  for  military  service. 

Shall  have  his  name  erased  for  fear  or  favor. 
Agoracritus. — That  gives  a  bang  to  Cleonymus's  buckler. 
Demus. — I'll  not  permit  those  fellows  without  beards 

To  harangue  in  our  Assembly;  boys  or  men. 
Agoracritus. — Then   what's   to  become  of  Cleisthenes  and 
Strato  ? 

Where  must  they  speak  ? 
Demus. —  I  mean  those  kind  of  youths, 

The  little  puny  would-be  politicians, 

Sitting  conversing  in  perfumers'  shops, 


S02  ARISTOPHANES 

Lisping  and  prating  in  this  kind  of  way: 
"  Phseax  is  sharp — he  made  a  good  come-off, 

And  saved  his  life  in  a  famous  knowing  style. 

I  reckon  him  a  first-rate ;   quite  capital 

For  energy  and  compression  ;  so  collected, 

And  such  a  choice  of  language !    Then  to  see  him 

Battling  against  a  mob — it's  quite  delightful ! 

He's  never  cowed  !    He  bothers  'em  completely !  " 
Agoracritus. — It's  your  own  fault,  in  part  you've  helped  to 
spoil  'em ; 

But  what  do  you  mean  to  do  with  'em  for  the  future  ? 
Demus. — I  shall  send  them  into  the  country,  all  the  pack  of  'em, 

To  learn  to  hunt,  and  leave  off  making  laws. 
Agoracritus. — Then  I  present  you  here  with  a  folding  chair, 

And  a  stout  lad  to  carry  it  after  you. 
Demus. — Ah,  that  reminds  one  of  the  good  old  times. 
Agoracritus. — But  what  will  you  say,  if  I  give  you  a  glorious 
peace, 

A  lusty  strapping  truce  of  thirty  years  ? 

Come  forward  here,  my  lass,  and  show  yourself. 
Demus. — By  Jove,  what  a  face  and  figure !    I  should  like 

To  ratify  and  conclude  incontinently. 

Where  did  you  find  her? 
Agoracritus. —  Oh,  the  Paphlagonian, 

Of  course,  had  huddled  her  out  of  sight,  within  therCi 

But  now  you've  got  her,  take  her  back  with  you 

Into  the  country. 
Demus. —  But  the  Paphlagonian, 

What  shall  we  do  to  punish  him?    What  d'ye  think? 
Agoracritus. — Oh,  no  great  matter.    He  shall  have  my  trade ; 

With  an  exclusive  sausage-selling  patent, 

To  traffic  openly  at  the  city  gates. 

And  garble  his  wares  with  dogs'  and  asses'  flesh; 

With  a  privilege,  moreover,  to  get  drunk, 

And  bully  among  the  strumpets  of  the  suburbs,  ; 

And  the  ragamuffin  waiters  at  the  baths. 
Demus. — That's  well  imagined,  it  precisely  suits  him; 

His  natural  bent,  it  seems,  his  proper  element 

To  squabble  with  poor  trulls  and  low  rapscallions. 

As  for  yourself,  I  give  you  an  invitation 


THE  KNIGHTS 


203 


To  dine  with  me  in  the  hall.    You'll  fill  the  seat 

Which  that  unhappy  villain  held  before. 

Take  this  new  robe !    Wear  it  and  follow  me ! 

And  you,  the  rest  of  you,  conduct  that  fellow 

To  his  future  home  and  place  of  occupation, 

The  gate  of  the  city ;  where  the  allies  and  foreigners, 

That  he  maltreated,  may  be  sure  to  find  him. 

lExeunt, 


LIFE  A  DREAM 


PEDRO  CALDERON 

[Metrical  translation  by  Edward  Fitzgerald] 


DRAMATIS   PERSONS 

Basilio,  King  of  Poland. 

Segismund,  his  Son. 

AsTOLFO^  his  Nephew. 

EsTRELLA,  his  Niccc. 

Clotaldo,  a  General  in  Basilio's  service. 

RosAURA,  a  Muscovite  lady. 

Fife,  her  Attendant. 

Chamberlain,   Lords   in   waiting,   Officers,   Soldiers,   etc.,  in 
Basilio's  service. 


The  scene  of  the  first  and  third  acts  lies  on  the  Polish  fron- 
tier: of  the  second  act,  in  Warsaw, 


LIFE  A  DREAM 


ACT  FIRST 

Scene  I. — A  pass  of  rocks,  over  which  a  storm  is  rolling  away, 
and  the  sun  setting:  in  the  foreground,  half  zvay  dozvn, 
a  fortress.  Enter  iirst,  from  the  topmost  rock,  Rosaura, 
as  from  horseback,  in  man's  attire;  and,  after  her, 
Fife* 

Rosaura. — There,  four-footed  Fury,  blast- 

engender'd  brute,  without  the  wit 

Of  brute,  or  mouth  to  match  the  bit 

Of  man — art  satisfied  at  last  ? 

Who,  when  thunder  roU'd  aloof, 

Tow'rd  the  spheres  of  fire  your  ears 

Pricking,  and  the  granite  kicking 

Into  lightning  with  your  hoof, 

Among  the  tempest-shatter'd  crags 

Shattering  your  luckless  rider 

Back  into  the  tempest  pass'd  ? 

There  then  lie  to  starve  and  die, 

Or  find  another  Phaeton 

Mad-mettled  as  yourself ;   for  I, 

Wearied,  worried,  and  for-done, 

Alone  will  down  the  mountain  try, 

That  knits  his  brows  against  the  sun. 
Fife  [as  to  his  mule]. — There,  thou  misbegotten  thing, 

•  As  this  version  of  Calderon's  drama  is  else  (not  all !)  that  defies  sober  sense  in  thit 

not  for  acting,  a  higher  and  wider  moun-  wild  drama.  I  must  leave  Calderon  to  an- 

UiD-scene  than  practicable  may  be  imag-  swer  for :  whose  nudience  were  not  cnli^ 

Ined  for  Rosaura's  descent  in  the  first  act  of  detail  and  probability,  so  long  ns  a  Rooa 

and  the  soldiers  ascent  in  the  last.  The  bad  story,  with  strong,  rapid,  and  nicturesque 

watch  kept  by  the  sentinels  who  guarded  action  and  situation,  wa»  set  belore  them, 
their  state-pnsoner,  together  with  much 

«07  Classics.     Vol.   36 — J 


ao8  CALDERON 

Long-ear'd  lightning,  tail'd  tornado. 

Griffin-hoof-in  hurricane — 

(I  might  swear  till  I  were  almost 

Hoarse  with  roaring  Asonante) 

Who  forsooth  because  your  betters 

Would  begin  to  kick  and  fling — 

You  forthwith  your  noble  mind 

Must  prove,  and  kick  me  off  behind, 

Tow'rd  the  very  centre  whither 

Gravity  was  most  inclined. 

There  where  you  have  made  your  bed 

In  it  lie ;  for,  wet  or  dry, 

Let  what  will  for  me  betide  you, 

Burning,  blowing,  freezing,  hailing; 

Famine  waste  you :  devil  ride  you : 

Tempest  baste  you  black  and  blue : — 

[To  Rosatira]  There!    I  think  in  downright  railing 

I  can  hold  my  own  with  you. 
RosAURA. — Ah,  my  good  Fife,  whose  merry  loyal  pipe, 

Come  weal,  come  woe,  is  never  out  of  tune — 

What,  you  in  the  same  plight  too  ? 
Fife. —  Ay ; 

And  madam — sir — hereby  desire. 

When  you  your  own  adventures  sing 

Another  time  in  lofty  rhyme. 

You  don't  forget  the  trusty  squire 

Who  went  with  you  Don-quixoting. 
RosAURA. — Well,  my  good  fellow — to  leave  Pegasus, 

Who  scarce  can  serve  us  than  our  horses  worse — > 

They  say  no  one  should  rob  another  of 

The  single  satisfaction  he  has  left 

Of  singing  his  own  sorrows ;  one  so  great, 

So  says  some  great  philosopher,  that  trouble 

Were  worth  encount'ring  only  for  the  sake 

Of  weeping  over — what  perhaps  you  know 

Some  poet  calls  the  "  luxury  of  woe." 
Fife. — Had  I  the  poet  or  philosopher 

In  place  of  her  that  kick'd  me  off  to  ride, 

I'd  test  his  theory  upon  his  hide. 

But  no  bones  broken,  madam — sir,  I  mean  ? — 


LIFE  A  DREAM  209 

RosAURA, — A  scratch  here  that  a  handkerchief  will  heal — 

And  you  ? — 
Fife. —  A  scratch  in  quiddity,  or  kind: 

But  not  in  "  quo  " — my  wounds  are  all  behind. 

But,  as  you  say,  to  stop  this  strain, 

Which,  somehow,  once  one's  in  the  vein. 

Comes  clattering  after — there  again ! — 

What  are  we  twain — deuce  take  't ! — we  two, 

I  mean,  to  do — drench'd  through  and  through — 

Oh,  I  shall  choke  of  rhymes,  which  I  believe 

Are  all  that  we  shall  have  to  live  on  here. 
RoSAURA. — What,  is  our  victual  gone  too  ? — 
Fife. —  Ay,  that  brute 

Has  carried  all  we  had  away  with  her. 

Clothing,  and  cate,  and  all. 
RosAURA. —  And  now  the  sun, 

Our  only  friend  and  guide,  about  to  sink 

Under  the  stage  of  earth. 
Fife. —  And  enter  Night, 

With  Capa  y  Espada — and — pray  heav'n ! — 

With  but  her  lanthorn  also. 
RosAURA. —  Ah,  I  doubt 

To-night,  if  any,  with  a  dark  one — or 

Almost  burnt  out  after  a  month's  consumption. 

Well  I   well  or  ill,  on  horseback  or  afoot, 

This  is  the  gate  that  lets  me  into  Poland ; 

And,  sorry  welcome  as  she  gives  a  guest 

Who  writes  his  own  arrival  on  her  rocks 

In  his  own  blood — 

Yet  better  on  her  stony  threshold  die. 

Than  live  on  unrevenged  in  Muscovy. 
Fife. — Oh  what  a  soul  some  women  have — I  mean. 

Some  men— 
RosAURA. —  Oh,  Fife,  Fife,  as  you  love  me,  Fife, 

Make  yourself  perfect  in  that  little  part. 

Or  all  will  go  to  ruin  ! 
Fife.—  Oh,  I  will, 

Please  God  we  find  someone  to  try  it  on. 

But,  truly,  would  not  any  one  believe 


2,o  CALDERON 

Some  fairy  had  exchanged  us  as  we  lay 
Two  tiny  foster-children  in  one  cradle? 

RosAURA. — Well,  be  that  as  it  may,  Fife,  it  reminds  me 
Of  what  perhaps  I  should  have  thought  before, 
But  better  late  than  never — You  know  I  love  you. 
As  you,  I  know,  love  me,  and  loyally 
Have  follow'd  me  thus  far  in  my  wild  venture: 
Well !  now  then — having  seen  me  safe  thus  far — 
Safe  if  not  wholly  sound — over  the  rocks 
Into  the  country  where  my  business  lies — 
Why  should  not  you  return  the  way  we  came, 
The  storm  all  clear'd  away,  and,  leaving  me 
(Who  now  shall  want  you,  though  not  thank  you,  less, 
Now  that  our  horses  gone)  this  side  the  ridge, 
Find  your  way  back  to  dear  old  home  again ; 
While  I — Come,  come! — 
What,  weeping,  my  poor  fellow  ? — 

Fife. —  Leave  you  here 

Alone — my  Lady — Lord !    I  mean  my  Lord — 
In  a  strange  country — among  savages — 
Oh,  now  I  know — you  would  be  rid  of  me 
For  fear  my  stumbling  speech — 

RosAURA. —  Oh,  no,  no,  no!- 

I  want  you  with  me  for  a  thousand  sakes 
To  which  that  is  as  nothing — I  myself 
More  apt  to  let  the  secret  out  myself 
Without  your  help  at  all — Come,  come,  cheer  up ! 
And  if  you  sing  again,  "  Come  weal,  come  woe," 
Let  it  be  that ;  for  we  will  never  part 
Until  you  give  the  signal. 

Fife. —  'Tis  a  bargain. 

RosAURA. — Now  to  begin,  then.    "  Follow,  follow  me, 
"  You  fairy  elves  that  be." 

Fife. —  Ay,  and  go  on — 

Something  of  "  following  darkness  like  a  dream," 
For  that  we're  after. 

RosAURA. —  No,  after  the  sun  ; 

Trying  to  catch  hold  of  his  glittering  skirts 
That  hang  upon  the  mountain  as  he  goes. 

Fife. — Ah,  he's  himself  past  catching — sis  you  spoke 


LIFE  A  DREAM  m 

He  heard  what  you  were  saying,  and — just  so- 
Like  some  scared  water-bird. 
As  we  say  in  my  country,  dove  below. 

RoSAURA. — Well,  we  must  follow  him  as  best  we  may. 
Poland  is  no  great  country,  and,  as  rich 
In  men  and  means,  will  but  few  acres  spare 
To  lie  beneath  her  barrier  mountains  bare. 
We  cannot,  I  believe,  be  very  far 
From  mankind  or  their  dwellings. 

Fife. —  Send  it  so ! 

And  well  provided  for  man,  woman,  and  beast. 
No,  not  for  beast.    Ah,  but  my  heart  begins 
To  yearn  for  her — 

RosAURA. —  Keep  close,  and  keep  your  feet 

From  serving  you  as  hers  did. 

Fife. —  As  for  beasts, 

If  in  default  of  other  entertainment. 
We  should  provide  them  with  ourselves  to  eat — 
Bears,  lions,  wolves — 

RosAURA. —  Oh,  never  fear. 

Fife. —  Or  else. 

Default  of  other  beasts,  beastlier  men. 
Cannibals,  Anthropophagi,  bare  Poles 
Who  never  knew  a  tailor  but  by  taste. 

RosAURA. — Look,  look !    Unless  my  fancy  misconceive 

With  twilight — down  among  the  rocks  there,  Fife- 
Some  human  dwelling,  surely — 
Or  think  you  but  a  rock  torn  from  the  rocks 
In  some  convulsion  like  to-day's,  and  perch'd 
Quaintly  among  them  in  mock-masonry? 

Fife. — Most  likely  that,  I  doubt. 

RosAURA. —  No,  no — for  look! 

A  square  of  darkness  opening  in  it — 

Fife. —  Oh, 

I  don't  half  like  such  openings ! — 

RosAURA. —  Like  the  loom 

Of  night  from  which  she  spins  her  outer  gloom— 

Fife. — Lord,  Madam,  pray  forbear  this  tragic  vein 
In  such  a  time  and  place — 

RosAURA. —  And  now  again 


,,,  CALDERON 

Within  that  square  of  darkness,  look !  a  light 

That  feels  its  way  with  hesitating  pulse, 

As  we  do,  through  the  darkness  that  it  drives 

To  blacken  into  deeper  night  beyond. 
Fife. — In  which  could  we  follow  that  light's  example. 

As  might  some  English  Bardolph  with  his  nose, 

We  might  defy  the  sunset — Hark,  a  chain ! 
RosAURA. — And  now  a  lamp,  a  lamp !    And  now  the  hand 

That  carries  it. 
Fife. —  Oh,  Lord!   that  dreadful  chain! 

RosAURA. — And  now  the  bearer  of  the  lamp ;  indeed 

As  strange  as  any  in  Arabian  tale. 

So  giant-like,  and  terrible,  and  grand, 

Spite  of  the  skin  he's  wrapt  in. 
Fife. —  Why,  'tis  his  own: 

Oh,  'tis  some  wild  man  of  the  woods ;  I've  heard 

They  build  and  carry  torches — 
RosAURA. —  Never  Ape 

Bore  such  a  brow  before  the  heav'ns  as  that — 

Chain'd  as  you  say  too ! — 
Fife. —  Oh,  that  dreadful  chain! 

RoSAURA. — And  now  he  sets  the  lamp  down  by  his  side, 

And  with  one  hand  clench'd  in  his  tangkd  hair 

And  with  a  sigh  as  if  his  heart  would  break — 
[Diiring  this  Segismimd  has  entered  from  the  fortress,  with 

a  torch. 
Segismund. — Once  more  the  storm  has  roar'd  itself  away. 

Splitting  the  crags  of  God  as  it  retires ; 

But  sparing  still  what  it  should  only  blast, 

This  guilty  piece  of  human  handiwork. 

And  all  that  are  within  it.    Oh,  how  oft. 

How  oft,  within  or  here  abroad,  have  I 

Waited,  and  in  the  whisper  of  my  heart 

Pray'd  for  the  slanting  hand  of  heav'n  to  strike 

The  blow  myself  I  dared  not,  out  of  fear 

Of  that  Hereafter,  worse,  they  say,  than  here. 

Plunged   headlong  in,  but,  till  dismissal  waited, 

To  wipe  at  last  all  sorrow  from  men's  eyes, 

And  make  this  heavy  dispensation  clear. 

Thus  have  I  borne  till  now,  and  still  endure. 


LIFE  A  DREAM 

Crouching-  in  sullen  impotence  day  by  day, 
Till  some  such  outburst  of  the  elements 
Like  this  rouses  the  sleeping  fire  within ; 
And  standing  thus  upon  the  threshold  of 
Another  night  about  to  close  the  door 
Upon  one  wretched  day  to  open  it 
On  one  yet  wretcheder  because  one  more ; — 
Once  more,  you  savage  heav'ns,  I  ask  of  you — 
I,  looking  up  to  those  relentless  eyes 
That,  now  the  greater  lamp  is  gone  below, 
Begin  to  muster  in  the  listening  skies ; 
In  all  the  shining  circuits  you  have  gone 
About  this  theatre  of  human  woe, 
What  greater  sorrow  have  you  gazed  upon 
Than  down  this  narrow  chink  you  witness  still ; 
And  which,  did  you  yourselves  not  fore-devise, 
You  register'd  for  others  to  fulfil ! 

Fife. — This  is  some  Laureate  at  a  birthday  ode; 
No  wonder  we  went  rhyming. 

RosAURA. —  Hush!    And  now. 

See,  starting  to  his  feet,  he  strides  about 
Far  as  his  tether'd  steps — 

Segismund. —  And  if  the  chain 

You  help'd  to  rivet  round  me  did  contract 
Since  guiltless  infancy  from  guilt  in  act ; 
Of  what  in  aspiration  or  in  thought 
Guilty,  but  in  resentment  of  the  wrong 
That  wreaks  revenge  on  wrong  I  never  wrought 
By  excommunication  from  the  free 
Inheritance  that  all  created  life, 
Beside  myself,  is  born  to — from  the  wings 
That  range  your  own  immeasurable  blue, 
Down  to  the  poor,  mute,  scale-imprison'd  things. 
That  yet  are  free  to  wander,  glide,  and  pass 
About  that  under-sapphire,  whereinto 
Yourselves  transfusing  you  yourselves  englass ! 

RosAURA. — What  mystery  is  this? 

Fife. —  Why,  the  man's  mad: 

That's  all  the  mystery.    That's  why  he's  chain'd — 
And  why — 


113 


a, 4  CALDERON 

Segismund. —  Nor  Nature's  guiltless  life  alone — 

But  that  which  lives  on  blood  and  rapine ;  nay, 
Charter'd  with  larger  liberty  to  slay 
Their  guiltless  kind,  the  tyrants  of  the  air 
Soar  zenith-upward  with  their  screaming  prey, 
Making  pure  heav'n  drop  blood  upon  the  stage 
Of  under  earth,  where  lion,  wolf,  and  bear, 
And  they  that  on  their  treacherous  velvet  wear 
Figure  and  constellation  like  your  own,* 
With  their  still  living  slaughter  bound  away 
Over  the  barriers  of  the  mountain  cage. 
Against  which  one,  blood-guiltless,  and  endued 
With  aspiration  and  with  aptitude 
Transcending  other  creatures,  day  by  day 
Beats  himself  mad  with  unavailing  rage ! 

Fife. — Why,  that  must  be  the  meaning  of  my  mule's 
Rebellion — 

RosAURA. —  Hush ! 

Segismund. —  But  then  if  murder  be 

The  law  by  which  not  only  conscience-blind 
Creatures,  but  man  too  prospers  with  his  kind ; 
Who  leaving  all  his  guilty  fellows  free, 
Under  your  fatal  auspice  and  divine 
Compulsion,  leagued  in  some  mysterious  ban 
Against  one  innocent  and  helpless  man, 
Abuse  their  liberty  to  murder  mine: 
And  sworn  to  silence,  like  their  masters  mute 
In  heav'n,  and  like  them  twiring  through  the  mask 
Of  darkness,  answering  to  all  I  ask. 
Point  up  to  them  whose  work  they  execute ! 

RosAURA. — Ev'n  as  I  thought,  some  poor  unhappy  wretch, 
By  man  wrong'd,  wretched,  unrevenged,  as  I ! 
Nay,  so  much  worse  than  I,  as  by  those  chains 
Clipt  of  the  means  of  self-revenge  on  those 
Who  lay  on  him  what  they  deserve.    And  I, 
Who  taunted  Heav'n  a  little  while  ago 
With  pouring  all  its  wrath  upon  my  head — 

•"  Some  report  that  they  "—(panthers)—  passe,  and  otherwhiles  hollowed  and  point* 

"  have  one  marke  on  the  shoulders  reseni-  ed  with  tips  like  the  homes."— PhilemoB 

bling  the  moone,  growing  and  decreasing  Holland's  "  Pliny,"  b.  viii.  c.  17. 
as  she  doth,  sometimes  showing  a  full  com- 


LIFE   A   DREAM  J15 

Alas !  like  him  who  caught  the  cast-off  husk 

Of  what  another  bragg'd  of  feeding  on, 

Here's  one  that  from  the  refuse  of  my  sorrows 

Could  gather  all  the  banquet  he  desires ! 

Poor  soul,  poor  soul ! 
Fife. —  Speak  lower — he  will  hear  you. 

RosAURA. — And  if  he  should,  what  then  ?    Why,  if  he  would, 

He  could  not  harm  me — Nay,  and  if  he  could, 

Methinks  I'd  venture  something  of  a  life 

I  care  so  little  for — 
Segismund. — Who's  that?    Clotaldo?    Who  are  you,  I  say, 

That,  venturing  in  these  forbidden  rocks. 

Have  lighted  on  my  miserable  life, 

And  your  own  death  ? 
RosAURA. —  You  would  not  hurt  me,  surely  ? 

Segismund. — Not  I ;  but  those  that,  iron  as  the  chain 

In  which  they  slay  me  with  a  lingering  death. 

Will  slay  you  with  a  sudden — Who  are  you  ? 
RosAURA. — A  stranger  from  across  the  mountain  there. 

Who,  having  lost  his  way  in  this  strange  land 

And  coming  night,  drew  hither  to  what  seem'd 

A  human  dwelling  hidden  in  these  rocks, 

And  where  the  voice  of  human  sorrow  soon 

Told  him  it  was  so. 
Segismund. —  Ay?    But  nearer — nearer — 

That  by  this  smoky  supplement  of  day 

But  for  a  moment  I  may  see  who  speaks 

So  pitifully  sweet. 
Fife. —  Take  care!  take  care! 

RosAURA. — Alas,  poor  man,  that  I,  myself  so  helpless. 

Could  better  help  you  than  by  barren  pity. 

And  my  poor  presence — 
Segismund. —  Oh,  might  that  be  all  I 

But  that — a  few  poor  moments — and,  alas ! 

The  very  bliss  of  having,  and  the  dread 

Of  losing,  under  such  a  penalty 

As  every  moment's  having  runs  more  near, 

Stifles  the  very  utterance  and  resource 

They  cry  for  quickest ;  till  from  sheer  despair 

Of  holding  thee,  methinks  myself  would  tear 

To  pieces — 


9j5  CALDERON 

Pipe. —  There,  his  word's  enough  for  it. 

Segismund, — Oh,  think,  if  you  who  move  about  at  will. 

And  live  in  sweet  communion  with  your  kind, 

After  an  hour  lost  in  these  lonely  rocks 

Hunger  and  thirst  after  some  human  voice 

To  drink,  and  human  face  to  feed  upon ; 

What  must  one  do  where  all  is  mute,  or  harsh, 

And  ev'n  the  naked  face  of  cruelty 

Were  better  than  the  mask  it  works  beneath  ? — 

Across  the  mountain  then !    Across  the  mountain ! 

What  if  the  next  world  which  they  tell  one  of 

Be  only  next  across  the  mountain  then, 

Though  I  must  never  see  it  till  I  die, 

And  you  one  of  its  angels? 
RosAURA. —  Alas!  Alas! 

No  angel !    And  the  face  you  think  so  fair, 

'Tis  but  the  dismal  frame-work  of  these  rocks 

That  makes  it  seem  so ;  and  the  world  I  come  f rem— 

Alas,  alas,  too  many  faces  there 

Are  but  fair  vizors  to  black  hearts  below, 

Or  only  serve  to  bring  the  wearer  woe ! 

But  to  yourself — If  haply  the  redress 

That  I  am  here  upon  may  help  to  yours. 

I  heard  you  tax  the  heav'ns  with  ordering, 

And  men  for  executing,  what,  alas! 

I  now  behold.    But  why,  and  who  they  are 

Who  do,  and  you  who  suffer — 
Segismund  [pointing  upwards]. —        Ask  of  them. 

Whom,  as  to-night,  I  have  so  often  ask'd, 

And  ask'd  in  vain. 
RosAURA. —  But  surely,  surely — 

Segismund. —  Hark  f 

The  trumpet  of  the  watch  to  shut  us  in. 

Oh,  should  they  find  you ! — Quick !    Behind  the  rocks ! 

To-morrow — if  to-morrow — 
RosAURA  [flinging  her  sword  toward  hini], — Take  my  sword! 

Rosaura  and  Fife  hide  in  the  rocks;   enter  Clotaldo. 

Clotaldo. — These  stormy  days  you  like  to  see  the  last  of 
Are  but  ill  opiates,  Segismund,  I  think, 


LIFE  A  DREAM  tl-j 

For  night  to  follow :  and  to-night  you  seem 

More  than  your  wont  disorder'd.    What !    A  sword  ? 

Within  there ! 

Enter  Soldiers  with  black  vizors  and  torches. 

Fife. — Here's  a  pleasant  masquerade ! 

Clotaldo. — Whosoever  watch  this  was 

Will  have  to  pay  head-reckoning.    Meanwhile, 
This  weapon  had  a  wearer.    Bring  him  here. 
Alive  or  dead. 

Segismund. —  Clotaldo !  good  Clotaldo ! — 

Clotaldo  [to  Soldiers  who  enclose  Segismund;  others  search- 
ing the  rocks]. — You  know  your  duty. 

Soldiers  [bringing  in  Rosaura  and  Fife]. — Here  are  two  of 
them, 
Whoever  more  to  follow — 

Clotaldo. —  Who  are  you, 

That  in  defiance  of  known  proclamation 
Are  found,  at  night- fall  too,  about  this  place? 

Fife. — Oh,  my  Lord,  she — I  mean  he — 

Rosaura.—  Silence,  Fife, 

And  let  me  speak  for  both.    Two  foreign  men, 
To  whom  your  country  and  its  proclamations 
Are  equally  unknown ;  and,  had  we  known. 
Ourselves  not  masters  of  our  lawless  beasts 
That,  terrified  by  the  storm  among  your  rocks. 
Flung  us  upon  them  to  our  cost — 

Fife. —  My  mule — 

Clotaldo. — Foreigners?    Of  what  country? 

Rosaura. —  Muscovy. 

Clotaldo. — And  whither  bound? 

Rosaura. —  Hither— if  this  be  Poland; 

But  with  no  ill  design  on  her,  and  therefore 
Taking  it  ill  that  we  should  thus  be  stopt 
Upon  her  threshold  so  uncivilly. 

Clotaldo. — Whither  in  Poland  ? 

Rosaura. —  To  the  capital. 

Clotaldo. — And  on  what  errand? 

Rosaura. —  Set  me  on  the  road. 

And  you  shall  be  the  nearer  to  my  answer. 


2x8  CALDERON 

Clotaldo  [aside]. — So  resolute  and  ready  to  reply, 

And  yet  so  young — and — [aloud]   Well — 

Your  business  was  not  surely  with  the  man 

We  found  you  with  ? 
RosAURA. —  He  was  the  first  we  saw— 

And  strangers  and  benighted,  as  we  were, 

As  you  too  would  have  done  in  a  like  case, 

Accosted  him  at  once. 
Clotaldo. —  Ay,  but  this  sword? 

RosAURA. — I  flung  it  toward  him. 
Clotaldo. —  Well,  and  why? 

RosAURA. —  And  why? 

But  to  revenge  himself  on  those  who  thus 

Injuriously  misuse  him. 
Clotaldo. —  So — so — so ! 

'Tis  well  such  resolution  wants  a  beard — 

And,  I  suppose,  is  never  to  attain  one. 

Well,  I  must  take  you  both,  you  and  your  sword, 

Prisoners, 
Fife  [offering  a  cudgel]. — Pray  take  mine,  and  welcome,  sir; 

I'm  sure  I  gave  it  to  that  mule  of  mine 

To  mighty  little  purpose. 
RosAURA. —  Mine  you  have ; 

And  may  it  win  us  some  more  kindliness 

Than  we  have  met  with  yet. 
Clotaldo  [examining  the  sword]. — More  mystery! 

How  came  you  by  this  weapon  ? 
RosAURA. —  From  my  father. 

Clotaldo. — And  do  you  know  whence  he  ? 
RosAURA. —  Oh,  very  well : 

From  one  of  this  same  Polish  realm  of  yours, 

Who  promised  a  return,  should  come  the  chance. 

Of  courtesies  that  he  received  himself 

In  Muscovy,  and  left  this  pledge  of  it — 

Not  likely  yet,  it  seems,  to  be  redeem'd. 
Clotaldo  [aside] . — Oh,  wondrous  chance — or  wondrous  Prov- 
idence ! 

The  sword  that  I  myself  in  Muscovy, 

When  these  white  hairs  were  black,  for  keepsake  left 

Of  obligation  for  a  like  return 


LIFE   A   DREAM  919 

To  him  who  saved  me  wounded  as  I  lay 
Fighting  against  his  country ;  took  me  home ; 
Tended  me  hke  a  brother  till  recover'd, 
Perchance  to  fight  against  him  once  again — 
And  now  my  sword  put  back  into  my  hand 
By  his — if  not  his  son — still,  as  so  seeming, 
By  me,  as  first  devoir  of  gratitude, 
To  seem  believing,  till  the  wearer's  self 
See  fit  to  drop  the  ill-dissembling  mask, 
[Aloud]  Well,  a  strange  turn  of  fortune  has  arrested 
The  sharp  and  sudden  penalty  that  else 
Had  visited  your  rashness  or  mischance : 
In  part,  your  tender  youth  too — pardon  me. 
And  touch  not  where  your  sword  is  not  to  answer- 
Commends  you  to  my  care ;  not  your  life  only, 
Else  by  this  misadventure  forfeited ; 
But  ev'n  your  errand,  which  by  happy  chance, 
Chimes  with  the  very  business  I  am  on. 
And  calls  me  to  the  very  point  you  aim  at. 

RosAURA. — The  capital? 

Clotaldo. —  Ay,  the  capital ;  and  ev'n 

That  capital  of  capitals,  the  Court : 
Where  you  may  plead,  and,  I  may  promise,  win 
Pardon  for  this,  you  say  unwilling,  trespass, 
And  prosecute  what  else  you  have  at  heart. 
With  me  to  help  you  forward  all  I  can ; 
Provided  all  in  loyalty  to  those 
To  whom  by  natural  allegiance 
I  first  am  bound  to. 

Rosaura. —  As  you  make,  I  take 

Your  oflfer :  with  like  promise  on  my  side 
Of  loyalty  to  you  and  those  you  serve. 
Under  like  reservation  for  regards 
Nearer  and  dearer  still. 

Clotaldo. —  Enough,  enough ; 

Your  hand ;  a  bargain  on  both  sides.    Meanwhile, 
Here  shall  you  rest  to-night.    The  break  of  day 
Shall  see  us  both  together  on  the  way. 

Rosaura. — Thus  then  what  I  for  misadventure  blamed. 
Directly  draws  me  where  my  wishes  aim'd. 

\  Exeunt, 


2  20  CALDERON 

Scene  II. — The  Palace  at  Warsaw.  Enter  on  one  side  Astoifo, 
Duke  of  Muscovy,  with  his  train;  and,  on  the  other,  the 
Princess  Estrella,  with  hers. 

AsTOLFO, — My  royal  cousin,  if  so  near  in  blood, 

Till  this  auspicious  meeting  scarcely  known, 

Till  all  that  beauty  promised  in  the  bud 

Is  now  to  its  consummate  blossom  blown, 

Well  met  at  last ;  and  may — 
Estrella. —  Enough,  my  Lord, 

Of  compliment  devised  for  you  by  some 

Court  tailor,  and,  believe  me,  still  too  short 

To  cover  the  designful  heart  below. 
AsTOLFO. — Nay,  but  indeed,  fair  cousin — 
Estrella. —  Ay,  let  Deed 

Measure  your  words,  indeed  your  flowers  of  speech 

111  with  your  iron  equipage  atone ; 

Irony  indeed,  and  wordy  compliment. 
AsTOLFO. — Indeed,  indeed,  you  wrong  me,  royal  cousin, 

And  fair  as  royal,  misinterpreting 

What,  even  for  the  end  you  think  I  aim  at. 

If  false  to  you,  were  fatal  to  myself. 
Estrella. — Why,  what  else  means  the  glittering  steel,  my  Lord 

That  bristles  in  the  rear  of  these  fine  words  ? 

What  can  it  mean,  but,  failing  to  cajole. 

To  fight  or  force  me  from  my  just  pretension? 
Astolfo. — Nay,  might  I  not  ask  ev'n  the  same  of  you. 

The  nodding  helmets  of  whose  men  at  arms 

Out-crest  the  plumage  of  your  lady  court? 
Estrella. — But  to  defend  what  yours  would  force  from  me. 
Astolfo. — Might  not  I,  lady,  say  the  same  of  mine  ? 

But  not  to  come  to  battle,  ev'n  of  words. 

With  a  fair  lady,  and  my  kinswoman  ; 

And  as  averse  to  stand  before  your  face. 

Defenceless,  and  condemn'd  in  your  disgrace, 

Till  the  good  king  be  here  to  clear  it  all — 

Will  you  vouchsafe  to  hear  me? 
Estrella. —  As  you  will. 

Astolfo. — You  know  that,  when  about  to  leave  this  world, 

Our  royal  grandsire,  King  Alfonso,  left 


LIFE  A  DREAM  221 

Three  chidren ;  one  a  son,  Basilio, 

Who  wears — long  may  he  wear ! — the  crown  of  Poland ; 

And  daughters  twain :  of  whom  the  elder  was 

Your  mother,  Clorilena,  now  some  while 

Exalted  to  a  more  than  mortal  throne ; 

And  Recisunda,  mine,  the  younger  sister, 

Who,  married  to  the  Prince  of  Muscovy, 

Gave  me  the  light  which  may  she  live  to  see 

Herself  for  many,  many  years  to  come. 

Meanwhile,  good  King  Basilio,  as  you  know, 

Deep  in  abstruser  studies  than  this  world. 

And  busier  with  the  stars  than  lady's  eyes, 

Has  never  by  a  second  marriage  yet 

Replaced,  as  Poland  ask'd  of  him,  the  heir 

An  early  marriage  brought  and  took  away ; 

His  young  queen  dying  with  the  son  she  bore  him: 

And  in  such  alienation  grow  so  old 

As  leaves  no  other  hope  of  heir  to  Poland 

Than  his  two  sisters'  children ;  you,  fair  cousin, 

And  me ;  for  whom  the  Commons  of  the  realm 

Divide  themselves  into  two  several  factions ; 

Whether  for  you,  the  elder  sister's  child ; 

Or  me,  born  of  the  younger,  but,  they  say, 

My  natural  prerogative  of  man 

Outweighing  your  priority  of  birth. 

Which  discord  growing  loud  and  dangerous, 

Our  uncle,  King  Basilio,  doubly  sage 

In  prophesying  and  providing  for 

The  future,  as  to  deal  with  it  when  come, 

Bids  us  here  meet  to-day  in  solemn  council 

Our  several  pretensions  to  compose. 

And,  but  the  martial  outburst  that  proclaims 

His  coming,  makes  all  further  parley  vain. 

Unless  my  bosom,  by  which  only  wise 

I  prophesy,  now  wrongly  prophesies. 

By  such  a  happy  compact  as  I  dare 

But  glance  at  till  the  Royal  Sage  declare. 

Enter  King  Basilio  with  his  Council. 

All. — The  King!    God  save  the  King! 


J23  CALDERON 

EsTRELLA  [kneeling], —  Oh,  Royal  Sir! — 

AsTOLFO  [kneeling]. — God  save  your  Majesty! — 
King. —  Rise,  both  of  you, 

Rise  to  my  arms,  Astolfo  and  Estrella ; 
As  my  two  sisters'  children  always  mine, 
Now  more  than  ever,  since  myself  and  Poland 
Solely  to  you  for  our  succession  look'd. 
And  now  give  ear,  you  and  your  several  factions, 
And  you,  the  Peers  and  Princes  of  this  realm. 
While  I  reveal  the  purport  of  this  meeting 
In  words  whose  necessary  length  I  trust 
No  unsuccessful  issue  shall  excuse. 
You  and  the  world  who  have  surnamed  me  "  Sage  '* 
Know  that  I  owe  that  title,  if  my  due. 
To  my  long  meditation  on  the  book 
Which  ever  lying  open  overhead — 
The  book  of  heav'n,  I  mean — so  few  have  read ; 
Whose  golden  letters  on  whose  sapphire  leaf. 
Distinguishing  the  page  of  day  and  night, 
And  all  the  revolution  of  the  year ; 
So  with  the  turning  volume  where  they  lie 
Still  changing  their  prophetic  syllables, 
They  register  the  destinies  of  men: 
Until  with  eyes  that,  dim  with  years  indeed, 
Are  quicker  to  pursue  the  stars  that  rule  them, 
I  get  the  start  of  Time,  and  from  his  hand 
The  wand  of  tardy  revelation  draw. 
Oh,  had  the  self-same  heav'n  upon  his  page 
Inscribed  my  death  ere  I  should  read  my  life 
And,  by  forecasting  of  my  own  mischance, 
Play  not  the  victim  but  the  suicide 
In  my  own  tragedy ! — But  you  shall  hear. 
You  know  how  once,  as  kings  must  for  their  people; 
And  only  once,  as  wise  men  for  themselves, 
I  woo'd  and  wedded :  know  too  that  my  Queen 
In  childing  died ;  but  not,  as  you  believe, 
With  her,  the  son  she  died  in  giving  life  to. 
For,  as  the  hour  of  birth  was  on  the  stroke, 
Her  brain  conceiving  with  her  womb,  she  dream'd 
A  serpent  tore  her  entrail.    And,  too  surely 


LIFE  A  DREAM 


223 


(For  evil  omen  seldom  speaks  in  vain) 

The  man-child  breaking  from  that  living  tomb 

That  makes  our  birth  the  antitype  of  death, 

Man-grateful,  for  the  life  she  gave  him  paid 

By  killing  her :  and  with  such  circumstance 

As  suited  such  unnatural  tragedy ; 

He  coming  into  light,  if  light  it  were 

That  darken'd  at  his  very  horoscope, 

When  heaven's  two  champions — sun  and  moon  I  mean — 

Suffused  in  blood  upon  each  other  fell 

In  such  a  raging  duel  of  eclipse 

As  hath  not  terrified  the  universe 

Since  that  which  wept  in  blood  the  death  of  Christ : 

When  the  dead  walk'd,  the  waters  turn'd  to  blood. 

Earth  and  her  cities  totter'd,  and  the  world 

Seem'd  shaken  to  its  last  paralysis. 

In  such  a  paroxysm  of  dissolution 

That  son  of  mine  was  born ;  by  that  first  act 

Heading  the  monstrous  catalogue  of  crime, 

I  found  fore-written  in  his  horoscope ; 

As  great  a  monster  in  man's  history 

As  was  in  nature  his  nativity ; 

So  savage,  bloody,  terrible,  and  impious, 

Who,  should  he  live,  would  tear  his  country's  entrails, 

As  by  his  birth  his  mother's ;  with  which  crime 

Beginning,  he  should  clench  the  dreadful  tale 

By  trampling  on  his  father's  silver  head. 

All  which  fore-reading,  and  his  act  of  birth 

Fate's  warrant  that  I  read  his  life  aright ; 

To  save  his  country  from  his  mother's  fate, 

I  gave  abroad  that  he  had  died  with  her 

His  being  slew :  with  midnight  secrecy 

I  had  him  carried  to  a  lonely  tower 

Hewn  from  the  mountain-barriers  of  the  realm. 

And  under  strict  anathema  of  death 

Guarded  from  men's  inquisitive  approach, 

Save  from  the  trusty  few  one  needs  must  trust ; 

Who  while  his  fasten'd  body  they  provide 

With  salutary  garb  and  nourishment. 

Instruct  his  soul  in  what  no  soul  may  miss 


924 


CALDERON 

Of  holy  faith,  and  in  such  other  lore 

As  may  solace  his  life-imprisonment, 

And  tame  perhaps  the  Savage  prophesied 

Toward  such  a  trial  as  I  aim  at  now, 

And  now  demand  your  special  hearing  to. 

What  in  this  fearful  business  I  have  done, 

Judge  whether  lightly  or  maliciousiy — 

I,  with  my  own  and  only  flesh  and  blood, 

And  proper  lineal  inheritor! 

I  swear,  had  his  foretold  atrocities 

Touch'd  me  alone,  I  had  not  saved  myself 

At  such  a  cost  to  him ;  but  as  a  king — 

A  Christian  king — I  say,  advisedly. 

Who  would  devote  his  people  to  a  tyrant 

Worse  than  Caligula  fore-chronicled  ? 

But  even  this  not  without  grave  misgiving, 

Lest  by  some  chance  misreading  of  the  stars, 

Or  misdirection  of  what  rightly  read, 

I  wrong  my  son  of  his  prerogative. 

And  Poland  of  her  rightful  sovereign. 

For,  sure  and  certain  prophets  as  the  stars, 

Although  they  err  not,  he  who  reads  them  may ; 

Or  rightly  reading — seeing  there  is  One 

Who  governs  them,  as,  under  Him,  they  us, 

We  are  not  sure  if  the  rough  diagram 

They  draw  in  heav'n  and  we  interpret  here, 

Be  sure  of  operation,  if  the  Will 

Supreme,  that  sometimes  for  some  special  end 

The  course  of  providential  nature  breaks 

By  miracle,  may  not  of  these  same  stars 

Cancel  his  own  first  draft,  or  overrule 

What  else  fore-written  all  else  overrules. 

As,  for  example,  should  the  Will  Almighty 

Permit  the  Free-will  of  particular  man 

To  break  the  meshes  of  else  strangling  fate— 

Which  Free-will,  fearful  of  foretold  abuse, 

I  have  myself  from  my  own  son  forclosed 

From  ever  possible  self -extrication ; 

A  terrible  responsibility, 

Not  to  the  conscience  to  be  reconciled 


LIFE  A   DREAM 

Unless  opposing  almost  certain  evil 

Against  so  slight  contingency  of  good. 

Well — thus  perplex'd,  I  have  resolved  at  last 

To  bring  the  thing  to  trial :  whereunto 

Here  have  I  summon'd  you,  my  Peers,  and  you 

Whom  I  more  dearly  look  to,  failing  him, 

As  witnesses  to  that  which  I  propose ; 

And  thus  propose  the  doing  it.    Clotaldo, 

Who  guards  my  son  with  old  fidelity. 

Shall  bring  him  hither  from  his  tower  by  night, 

Lockt  in  a  sleep  so  fast  as  by  my  art 

I  rivet  to  within  a  link  of  death. 

But  yet  from  death  so  far,  that  next  day's  dawn 

Shall  wake  him  up  upon  the  royal  bed. 

Complete  in  consciousness  and  faculty. 

When  with  all  princely  pomp  and  retinue 

My  loyal  Peers  with  due  obeisance 

Shall  hail  him  Segismund,  the  Prince  of  Poland, 

Then  if  with  any  show  of  human  kindness 

He  fling  discredit,  not  upon  the  stars, 

But  upon  me,  their  misinterpreter ; 

With  all  apology  mistaken  age 

Can  make  to  youth  it  never  meant  to  harm. 

To  my  son's  forehead  will  I  shift  the  crown 

I  long  have  wish'd  upon  a  younger  brow ; 

And  in  religious  humiliation. 

For  what  of  worn-out  age  remains  to  me, 

Entreat  my  pardon  both  of  Heav'n  and  him 

For  tempting  destinies  beyond  my  reach. 

But  if,  as  I  misdoubt,  at  his  first  step 

The  hoof  of  the  predicted  savage  shows ; 

Before  predicted  mischief  can  be  done, 

The  self-same  sleep  that  loosed  him  from  the  chain 

Shall  reconsign  him,  not  to  loose  again. 

Then  shall  I,  having  lost  that  heir  direct. 

Look  solely  to  my  sisters'  children  twain ; 

Each  of  a  claim  so  equal  as  divides 

The  voice  of  Poland  to  their  several  sides, 

But,  as  I  trust,  to  be  entwined  ere  long 

Into  one  single  wreath  so  fair  and  strong 


«»5 


226  CALDERON 

As  shall  at  once  all  difiference  atone, 

And  cease  the  realm's  division  with  their  own. 

Cousins  and  Princes,  Peers  and  Councillors, 

Such  is  the  purport  of  this  invitation, 

And  such  is  my  design.    Whose  furtherance 

If  not  as  Sovereign,  if  not  as  Seer, 

Yet  one  whom  these  white  locks,  if  nothing  else, 

To  patient  acquiescence  consecrate, 

I  now  demand  and  even  supplicate. 

AsTOLFO. — Such  news,  and  from  such  lips,  may  well  suspend 
The  tongue  to  loyal  answer  most  attuned ; 
But  if  to  me  as  spokesman  of  my  faction 
Your  Highness  looks  for  answer ;  I  reply 
For  one  and  all — Let  Segismund,  whom  now 
We  first  hear  tell  of  as  your  living  heir. 
Appear,  and  but  in  your  sufficient  eye 
Approve  himself  worthy  to  be  your  son, 
Then  we  will  hail  him  Poland's  rightful  heir. 
What  says  my  cousin? 

EsTRELLA. —  Ay,  with  all  my  heart. 

But  if  my  youth  and  sex  upbraid  me  not 
That  I  should  dare  ask  of  so  wise  a  king — 

King. — Ask,  ask,  fair  cousin !    Nothing,  I  am  sure, 
Not  well  consider'd ;  nay,  if  'twere,  yet  nothing 
But  pardonable  from  such  lips  as  those. 

EsTRELLA. — Then,  with- your  pardon.  Sir — If  Segismund, 
My  cousin,  whom  I  shall  rejoice  to  hail 
As  Prince  of  Poland  too,  as  you  propose. 
Be  to  a  trial  coming  upon  which 
More,  as  I  think,  than  life  itself  depends, 
Why,  Sir,  with  sleep-disorder'd  senses  brought 
To  this  uncertain  contest  with  his  stars? 

King. — Well  ask'd  indeed !    As  wisely  be  it  answer'd  !— 
Because  it  is  uncertain,  see  you  not? 
For  as  I  think  I  can  discern  between 
The  sudden  flaws  of  a  sleep-startled  man, 
And  of  the  savage  thing  we  have  to  dread ; 
If  but  bewilder'd,  dazzled,  and  uncouth, 
As  might  the  sanest  and  the  civilest 
In  circumstance  so  strange — nay,  more  than  that, 


LIFE  A  DREAM 


327 


If  moved  to  any  outbreak  short  of  blood, 

All  shall  be  well  with  him ;  and  how  much  more. 

If  'mid  the  magic  turmoil  of  the  change, 

He  shall  so  calm  a  resolution  show 

As  scarce  to  reel  beneath  so  great  a  blow ! 

But  if  with  savage  passion  uncontroH'd 

He  lay  about  him  like  the  brute  foretold, 

And  must  as  suddenly  be  caged  again  ; 

Then  what  redoubled  anguish  and  despair. 

From  that  brief  flash  of  blissful  liberty 

Remitted — and  forever — to  his  chain! 

Which  so  much  less,  if  on  the  stage  of  glory 

Enter'd  and  exited  through  such  a  door 

Of  sleep  as  makes  a  dream  of  all  between. 
EsTRELLA. — Oh  kindly  answer,  Sir,  to  question  that 

To  charitable  courtesy  less  wise 

Might  call  for  pardon  rather !    I  shall  now 

Gladly,  what,  uninstructed,  loyally 

I  should  have  waited, 
AsTOLFo. —  Your  Highness  doubts  not  me, 

Nor  how  my  heart  follows  my  cousin's  lips, 

Whatever  way  the  doubtful  balance  fall. 

Still  loyal  to  your  bidding. 
Omnes. —  So  say  all. 

King. — I  hoped,  and  did  expect,  of  all  no  less — 

And  sure  no  sovereign  ever  needed  more 

From  all  who  owe  him  love  or  loyalty. 

For  what  a  strait  of  time  I  stand  upon, 

When  to  this  issue  not  alone  I  bring 

My  son  your  Prince,  but  ev'n  myself  your  King: 

And,  whichsoever  way  for  him  it  turn. 

Of  less  than  little  honor  to  myself. 

For  if  this  coming  trial  justify 

My  thus  withholding  from  my  son  his  right, 

Is  not  the  judge  himself  justified  in 

The  father's  shame?    And  if  the  judge  proved  wrong, 

My  son  withholding  from  his  right  thus  long. 

Shame  and  remorse  to  judge  and  father  both : 

Unless  remorse  and  shame  together  drown'd 

In  having  what  I  flung  for  worthless  found. 


DaS  CALDERON 

But  come — already  weary  with  your  travel, 

And  ill  refresh'd  by  this  strange  history, 

Until  the  hours  that  draw  the  sun  from  heav'n 

Unite  us  at  the  customary  board, 

Each  to  his  several  chamber :  you  to  rest ; 

I  to  contrive  with  old  Clotaldo  best 

The  method  of  a  stranger  thing  than  old 

Time  has  as  yet  among  his  records  told.  [Exeunt. 


ACT  SECOND 

Scene  I. — A  Throne-room  in  the  Palace.    Music  within.  Enter 
King  and  Clotaldo,  meeting  a  Lord  in  waiting. 

King. — You,  for  a  moment  beckon'd  from  your  office, 
Tell  me  thus  far  how  goes  it.    In  due  time 
The  potion  left  him? 

Lord. —  At  the  very  hour 

To  which  your  Highness  temper'd  it.    Yet  not 
So  wholly  but  some  lingering  mist  still  hung 
About  his  dawning  senses — which  to  clear, 
We  fill'd  and  handed  him  a  morning  drink 
With  sleep's  specific  antidote  suffused ; 
And  while  with  princely  raiment  we  invested 
What  nature  surely  modell'd  for  a  Prince — 
All  but  the  sword — as  you  directed — 

King.  Ay — 

Lord. — If  not  too  loudly,  yet  emphatically 

Still  with  the  title  of  a  Prince  address'd  him. 

King. — How  bore  he  that? 

Lord. —  With  all  the  rest,  my  liege, 

I  will  not  say  so  like  one  in  a  dream 
As  one  himself  misdoubting  that  he  dream'd. 

King. — So  far  so  well,  Clotaldo,  either  way, 

And  best  of  all  if  tow'rds  the  worse  I  dread. 
But  yet  no  violence  ? — 

Lord. —  At  most,  impatience; 

Wearied  perhaps  with  importunities 
We  yet  were  bound  to  offer. 


LIFE  A  DREAM  aa^ 

King.—  Oh,  Clotaldo! 

Though  thus  far  well,  yet  would  myself  had  drunk 
The  potion  he  revives  from !  such  suspense 
Crowds  all  the  pulses  of  life's  residue 
Into  the  present  moment ;  and,  I  think, 
Whichever  way  the  trembling  scale  may  turn. 
Will  leave  the  crown  of  Poland  for  some  one 
To  wait  no  longer  than  the  setting  sun! 

Clotaldo. — Courage,  my  liege !    The  curtain  is  undrawn, 
And  each  must  play  his  part  out  manfully, 
Leaving  the  rest  to  heav'n. 

King. —  Whose  written  words 

If  I  should  misinterpret  or  transgress! 
But  as  you  say — 

[To  the  Lord,  who  exits]  You,  back  to  him  at  once; 
Clotaldo,  you,  when  he  is  somewhat  used 
To  the  new  world  of  which  they  call  him  Prince, 
Where  place  and  face,  and  all,  is  strange  to  him. 
With  your  known  features  and  familiar  garb 
Shall  then,  as  chorus  to  the  scene,  accost  him. 
And  by  such  earnest  of  that  old  and  too 
Familiar  world,  assure  him  of  the  new. 
Last  in  the  strange  procession,  I  myself 
Will  by  one  full  and  last  development 
Complete  the  plot  for  that  catastrophe 
That  he  must  put  to  all ;  God  grant  it  be 
The  crown  of  Poland  on  his  brows ! — Hark !  hark !— 
Was  that  his  voice  within? — Now  louder — Oh, 
Clotaldo,  what !  so  soon  begun  to  roar ! — 
Again!  above  the  music — But  betide 
What  may,  until  the  moment,  we  must  hide. 

[Exeunt  King  and  Clotaldo. 

Segismund  [imthin]. — Forbear!    I  stifle  with  your  perfume! 
cease 
Your  crazy  salutations!  peace,  I  say — 
Begone,  or  let  me  go,  ere  I  go  mad 
With  all  this  babble,  mummery,  and  glare. 
For  I  am  growing  dangerous — Air !  room !  air ! — 

[He  rushes  in.    Music  ceases. 
Oh  but  to  save  the  reeling  brain  from  wreck 


230 


CALDERON 

With  its  bewilder'd  senses  I — 

[He  covers  his  eyes  for  awhiU. 
What!    Ev'n  now 
That  Babel  left  behind  me,  but  my  eyes 
Pursued  by  the  same  glamour,  that — unless 
Alike  bewitch'd  too — the  confederate  sense 
Vouches  for  palpable:  bright-shining  floors 
That  ring  hard  answer  back  to  the  stamp'd  heel, 
And  shoot  up  airy  columns  marble-cold, 
That,  as  they  climb,  break  into  golden  leaf 
And  capital,  till  they  embrace  aloft 
In  clustering  flower  and  fruitage  over  walls 
Hung  with  such  purple  curtain  as  the  West 
Fringes  wnth  such  a  gold ;  or  over-laid 
With  sanguine-glowing  semblances  of  men, 
Each  in  his  all  but  living  action  busied, 
Or  from  the  wall  they  look  from,  with  fix'd  eyes 
Pursuing  me ;  and  one  most  strange  of  all 
That,  as  I  pass'd  the  crystal  on  the  wall, 
Look'd  from  it — left  it — and  as  I  return, 
Returns,  and  looks  me  face  to  face  again — 
Unless  some  false  reflection  of  my  brain, 
The  outward  semblance  of  myself — Myself? 
How  know  that  taw^dry  shadow  for  myself, 
But  that  it  moves  as  I  move ;  lifts  his  hand 
With  mine ;  each  motion  echoing  so  close 
The  immediate  suggestion  of  the  will 
In  which  myself  I  recognize — Myself ! — 
What,  this  fantastic  Segismund  the  same 
Who  last  night,  as  for  all  his  nights  before, 
Lay  down  to  sleep  in  wolf-skin  on  the  ground 
In  a  black  turret  which  the  wolf  howl'd  round, 
And  woke  again  upon  a  golden  bed. 
Round  which  as  clouds  about  a  rising  sun, 
In  scarce  less  glittering  caparison, 
Gather'd  gay  shapes  that,  underneath  a  breeze 
Of  music,  handed  him  upon  their  knees 
The  wine  of  heaven  in  a  cup  of  gold. 
And  still  in  soft  melodious  under-song 
Hailing  me  Prince  of  Poland ! — "  Segismund," 


LIFE  A  DREAM  231 

They  said,  "  Our  Prince !    The  Prince  of  Poland !  "  and 
Again,  "  Oh,  welcome,  welcome,  to  his  own, 
"  Our  own  Prince  Segismund — " 

Oh,  but  a  blast — 
One  blast  of  the  rough  mountain  air !   one  look 
At  the  grim  features — [He  goes  to  the  iinndow 
What  they  disvizor'd  also !  shatter'd  chaos 
Cast  into  stately  shape  and  masonry. 
Between  whose  channell'd  and  perspective  sides 
Compact  with  rooted  towers,  and  flourishing 
To  heav'n  with  gilded  pinnacle  and  spire, 
Flows  the  live  current  ever  to  and  fro 

With  open  aspect  and  free  step  ! Clotaldo ! 

Clotaldo ! — calling  as  one  scarce  dares  call 

For  him  who  suddenly  might  break  the  spell 

One  fears  to  walk  without  him — Why,  that  I, 

With  unencumber'd  step  as  any  there, 

Go  stumbling  through  my  glory — feeling  for 

That  iron  leading-string — ay,  for  myself — 

For  that  fast-anchor'd  self  of  yesterday, 

Of  yesterday,  and  all  my  life  before, 

Ere  drifted  clean  from  self-identity 

Upon  the  fluctuation  of  to-day's 

Mad  whirling  circumstance! — And,  fool,  why  not? 

li  reason,  sense,  and  self-identity 

Obliterated  from  a  worn-out  brain. 

Art  thou  not  maddest  striving  to  be  sane, 

And  catching  at  that  Self  of  yesterday 

That,  like  a  leper's  rags,  best  flung  away ! 

Or  if  not  mad,  then  dreaming — dreaming? — well — 

Dreaming  then — Or,  if  self  to  self  be  true. 

Not  mock'd  by  that,  but  as  poor  souls  have  been 

By  those  who  wrong'd  them,  to  give  wrong  new  relish? 

Or  have  those  stars  indeed  they  told  me  of 

As  masters  of  my  wretched  life  of  old, 

Into  some  happier  constellation  roU'd, 

And  brought  my  better  fortune  out  on  earth 

Clear  as  themselves  in  heav'n ! — Prince  Segismund 

They  call'd  me — and  at  will  I  shook  them  off — 

Will  they  return  again  at  my  command 

Classics.     Vol.  3G— K 


939  CALDERON 

Again  to  call  me  so  ? — Within  there !     You ! 
Segismund  calls — Prince  Segismund — 

[He  has  seated  himself  on  the  throne. 

Enter  Chamberlain,  with  Lords  in  waiting. 

Chamberlain. —  I  rejoice 

That  unadvised  of  any  but  the  voice 
Of  royal  instinct  in  the  blood,  your  Highness 
Has  ta'en  the  chair  that  you  were  bom  to  fill. 

Segismund, — The  chair? 

Chamberlain. —  The  royal  throne  of  Poland,  Sir, 

Which  may  your  Royal  Highness  keep  as  long 
As  he  that  now  rules  from  it  shall  have  ruled 
When  heav'n  has  call'd  him  to  itself. 

Segismund. —  When  he? — 

Chamberlain. — Your  royal  father,  King  Basilio,  Sir. 

Segismund. — My  royal  father — King  Basilio. 
You  see  I  answer  but  as  Echo  does, 
Not  knowing  what  she  listens  or  repeats. 
This  is  my  throne — this  is  my  palace — Oh, 
But  this  out  of  the  window  ? — 

Chamberlain. —  Warsaw,  Sir, 

Your  capital — 

Segismund. —  And  all  the  moving  people  ? 

Chamberlain. — Your  subjects  and  your  vassals  like  ourselves. 

Segismund. — Ay,  ay — my  subjects — in  my  capital — 
Warsaw — and  I  am  Prince  of  it — You  see 
It  needs  much  iteration  to  strike  sense 
Into  the  human  echo. 

Chamberlain. —  Left  awhile 

In  the  quick  brain,  the  word  will  quickly  to 

Full  meaning  blow.  \ 

Segismund. —  You  think  so? 

Chamberlain. —  And  meanwhile 

Lest  our  obsequiousness,  which  means  no  worse 
Than  customary  honor  to  the  Prince 
We  most  rejoice  to  welcome,  trouble  you, 
Should  we  retire  again  ?  or  stand  apart  ? 
Or  would  your  Highness  have  the  music  play 


LIFE  A  DREAM  233 

Again,  which  meditation,  as  they  say, 

So  often  loves  to  float  upon  ? 
Segismund. —  The  music? 

No — yes — perhaps  the  trumpet — [Aside.]     Yet  if  that 

Brought  back  the  troop ! 
A  Lord. —  The  trumpet!    There  again 

How  trumpet-like  spoke  out  the  blood  of  Poland ! 
Chamberlain. — Before  the  morning  is  far  up,  your  Highness 

Will  have  the  trumpet  marshalling  your  soldiers 

Under  the  Palace  windows. 
Segismund. —  Ah,  my  soldiers — 

My  soldiers — not  black-vizor'd  ? — 
Chamberlain. —  Sir? 

Segismund. —  No  matter. 

But — one  thing — for  a  moment — in  your  ear — 

Do  you  know  one  Clotaldo  ? 
Chamberlain. —  Oh,  my  Lord, 

He  and  myself  together,  I  may  say, 

Although  in  different  vocations, 
t  Have  silver'd  in  your  royal  father's  service ; 

*  And,  as  I  trust,  with  both  of  us  a  few 

White  hairs  to  fall  in  yours. 
Segismund. —  Well  said,  well  said! 

Basilio,  my  father — well — Clotaldo — 

Is  he  my  kinsman  too? 
Chamberlain. —  Oh,  my  good  Lord, 

A  General  simply  in  your  Highness'  service. 

Than  whom  your  Highness  has  no  trustier. 
Segismund. — Ay,  so  you  said  before,  I  think.    And  you 

With  that  white  wand  of  yours — 

Why,  now  I  think  on't,  I  have  read  of  such 

A  silver-hair'd  magician  with  a  wand, 

Who  in  a  moment,  with  a  wave  of  it, 

Turn'd  rags  to  jewels,  clowns  to  emperors. 

By  some  benigner  magic  than  the  stars 

Spirited  poor  good  people  out  of  hand 

From  all  their  woes  ;  in  some  enchanted  sleep 

Carried  them  off  on  cloud  or  dragon-back 

Over  the  mountains,  over  the  wide  deep, 

And  set  them  down  to  wake  in  fairyland. 


234 


CALDERON 


Chamberlain. — Oh,  my  good  Lord,  you  laugh  at  me — ^and  I 
Right  glad  to  make  you  laugh  at  such  a  price : 
You  know  me  no  enchanter :  if  I  were, 
I  and  my  wand  as  much  as  your  Highness', 
As  now  your  chamberlain — 

Segismund. —  My  chamberlain? — 

And  these  that  follow  you  ? — 

Chamberlain. —  On  you,  my  Lord ; 

Your  Highness'  lords  in  waiting. 

Segismund. —  Lords  in  waiting. 

Well,  I  have  now  learn'd  to  repeat,  I  think, 
If  only  but  by  rote — This  is  my  palace. 
And  this  my  throne — which  unadvised — And  that 
Out  of  the  window  there  my  Capital ; 
And  all  the  people  moving  up  and  down 
My  subjects  and  my  vassals  like  yourselves. 
My  chamberlain — and  lords  in  waiting — and 
Clotaldo — and  Clotaldo? — 
You  are  an  aged,  and  seem  a  reverend  man — 
You  do  not — though  his  fellow-ofificer — 
You  do  not  mean  to  mock  me  ? 

Chamberlain. —  Oh,  my  Lord ! 

Segismund. — Well  then — If  no  magician,  as  you  say, 
Yet  setting  me  a  riddle,  that  my  brain. 
With  all  its  senses  whirling,  cannot  solve. 
Yourself  or  one  of  these  with  you  must  answer — 
How  I — that  only  last  night  fell  asleep 
Not  knowing  that  the  very  soil  of  earth 
I  lay  down — chain'd — to  sleep  upon  was  Poland — ■ 
Awake  to  find  myself  the  Lord  of  it. 
With  Lords,  and  Generals,  and  Chamberlains, 
And  ev'n  my  very  Gaoler,  for  my  vassals  1 

Enter  Clotaldo  suddenly. 

Clotaldo. — Stand  all  aside 

That  I  may  put  into  his  hand  the  clew 
To  lead  him  out  of  this  amazement.    Sir, 
Vouchsafe  your  Highness  from  my  bended  knee 
Receive  my  homage  first. 


LIFE  A  DREAM  235 

Segismund. —  Clotaldo !    What, 

At  last — h.^s  old  self — undisguised  where  all 
Is  masquerade — to  end  it ! — You  kneeling  too  I 
What !  have  the  stars  you  told  me  long  ago 
Laid  that  old  work  upon  you,  added  this, 
That,  having  chain'd  your  prisoner  so  long, 
You  loose  his  body  now  to  slay  his  wits, 
Dragging  him — how  I  know  not — whither  scarce 
I  understand — dressing  him  up  in  all 
This  frippery,  with  your  dumb  familiars 
Disvizor'd,  and  their  lips  unlockt  to  lie, 
Calling  him  Prince  and  King,  and,  madman-like, 
Setting  a  crown  of  straw  upon  his  head  ? 

Clotaldo. — Would  but  your  Highness,  as  indeed  I  now 
Must  call  you — and  upon  his  bended  knee 
Never  bent  Subject  more  devotedly — 
However  all  about  you,  and  perhaps 
You  to  yourself  incomprehensible. 
But  rest  in  the  assurance  of  your  own 
Sane  waking  senses,  by  these  witnesses 
Attested,  till  the  story  of  it  all. 
Of  which  I  bring  a  chapter,  be  reveal'd. 
Assured  of  all  you  see  and  hear  as  neither 
Madness  nor  mockery — 

Segismund. —  What  then? 

Clotaldo. —  All  it  seems: 

This  palace  with  its  royal  garniture ; 
This  capital  of  which  it  is  the  eye, 
With  all  its  temples,  marts,  and  arsenals ; 
This  realm  of  which  this  city  is  the  head. 
With  all  its  cities,  villages,  and  tilth, 
Its  armies,  fleets,  and  commerce ;  all  your  own ; 
And  all  the  living  souls  that  make  them  up. 
From  those  who  now,  and  those  who  shall,  salute  you, 
Down  to  the  poorest  peasant  of  the  realm, 
Your  subjects — Who,  though  now  their  mighty  voice 
Sleeps  in  the  general  body  unapprised. 
Wait  but  a  word  from  those  about  you  now 
To  hail  you  Prince  of  Poland,  Segismund. 

Segismund. — All  this  is  so? 


236 


CALDERON 


Clotaldo. —  As  sure  as  anything 

Is,  or  can  be. 

Segismund. —  You  swear  it  on  the  faith 

You  taught  me — elsewhere  ? — 

Clotaldo  [kissing  the  hilt  of  his  sword]. — Swear  it  upon  this 
Symbol,  and  champion  of  the  holy  faith 
I  wear  it  to  defend. 

Segismund  [to  himself]. — My  eyes  have  not  deceived  me,  nor 
my  ears, 
With  this  transfiguration,  nor  the  strain 
Of  royal  welcome  that  arose  and  blew. 
Breathed  from  no  lying  lips,  along  with  it. 
For  here  Clotaldo  comes,  his  own  old  self, 
Who,  if  not  Lie  and  phantom  with  the  rest— 
[Aloud]   Well  then,  all  this  is  thus. 
For  have  not  these  fine  people  told  me  so, 
And  you,  Clotaldo,  sworn  it?    And  the  Why 
And  Wherefore  are  to  follow  by  and  by ! 
And  yet — and  yet — why  wait  for  that  which  you 
Who  take  your  oath  on  it  can  answer — and 
Indeed  it  presses  hard  upon  my  brain — 
What  I  was  asking  of  these  gentlemen 
When  you  came  in  upon  us  ;  how  it  is 
That  I — the  Segismund  you  know  so  long- 
No  longer  than  the  sun  that  rose  to-day 
Rose — and  from  what  you  know — 
Rose  to  be  Prince  of  Poland  ? 

Clotaldo. —  So  to  be 

Acknowledged  and  entreated,  sir. 

Segismund. —  So  be 

Acknowledged  and  entreated — 
Well — But  if  now  by  all,  by  some  at  least 
So  known — if  not  entreated — heretofore — 
Though  not  by  you — For,  now  I  think  again, 
Of  what  should  be  your  attestation  worth. 
You  that  of  all  my  questionable  subjects 
Who  knowing  what,  yet  left  me  where,  I  was. 
You  least  of  all,  Clotaldo,  till  the  dawn 
Of  this  first  day  that  told  it  to  myself? 

Clotaldo. — Oh,  let  your  Highness  draw  the  line  across 


LIFE  A  DREAM 


237 


Fore-written  sorrow,  and  in  this  new  dawn 
Bury  that  long  sad  night. 

Segismund. —  Not  ev'n  the  Dead, 

Call'd  to  the  resurrection  of  the  blest, 
Shall  so  directly  drop  all  memory 
Of  woes  and  wrongs  foregone! 

Clotaldo. —  But  not  resent— 

Purged  by  the  trial  of  that  sorrow  past 
For  full  fruition  of  their  present  bliss. 

Segismund.— But  leaving  with  the  Judge  what,  till  this  earth 
Be  cancell'd  in  the  burning  heav'ns.  He  leaves 
His  earthly  delegates  to  execute, 
Of  retribution  in  reward  to  them 
And  woe  to  those  who  wrong'd  them — Not  as  you. 
Not  you,  Clotaldo,  knowing  not — And  yet 
Ev'n  to  the  guiltiest  wretch  in  all  the  realm. 
Of  any  treason  guilty  short  of  that. 
Stern  usage — ^but  assuredly  not  knowing, 
Not  knowing  'twas  your  sovereign  lord,  Clotaldo, 
You  used  so  sternly. 

Clotaldo. —  Ay,  sir ;  with  the  same 

Devotion  and  fidelity  that  now 
Does  homage  to  him  for  my  sovereign. 

Segismund. — Fidelity  that  held  his  Prince  in  chains! 

Clotaldo. — Fidelity  more  fast  than  had  it  loosed  him — 

Segismund. — Ev'n  from  the  very  dawn  of  consciousness 
Down  at  the  bottom  of  the  barren  rocks. 
Where  scarce  a  ray  of  sunshine  found  him  out, 
In  which  the  poorest  beggar  of  my  realm 
At  least  to  human-full  proportion  grows — 
Me !   Me — whose  station  was  the  kingdom's  top 
To  flourish  in,  reaching  my  head  to  heav'n. 
And  with  my  branches  overshadowing 
The  meaner  growth  below  1 

CLOTALDa —  Still  with  the  same 

Fidelity— 

Segism  u  Na —       To  me  t — 

Clotaldo. —  Ay,  sir,  to  you. 

Through  that  divine  allegiance  upon  which 
All  Order  and  Authority  is  based ; 
Which  to  revolt  against — 


238  CALDERON 

Segismund. —  Were  to  revolt 

Against  the  stars,  belike ! 

Clotaldo. —  And  him  who  reads  them; 

And  by  that  right,  and  by  the  sovereignty 
He  wears  as  you  shall  wear  it  after  him ; 
Ay,  one  to  whom  yourself — 
Yourself,  ev'n  more  than  any  subject  here. 
Are  bound  by  yet  another  and  more  strong 
Allegiance — King  Basilio — your  Father — 

Segismund. — Basilio — King — my  father ! — 

Clotaldo. —  Oh,  my  Lord, 

Let  me  beseech  you  on  my  bended  knee, 
For  your  own  sake — for  Poland's — and  for  his, 
Who,  looking  up  for  counsel  to  the  skies. 
Did  what  he  did  under  authority 
To  which  the  kings  of  earth  themselves  are  subject, 
And  whose  behest  not  only  he  that  suffers. 
But  he  that  executes,  not  comprehends. 
But  only  He  that  orders  it — 

Segismund. —  The  King— 

My  father ! — Either  I  am  mad  already. 
Or  that  way  driving  fast — or  I  should  know 
That  fathers  do  not  use  their  children  so. 
Or  men  were  loosed  from  all  allegiance 
To  fathers,  kings,  and  heav'n  that  order'd  alL 
But,  mad  or  not,  my  hour  is  come,  and  I 
Will  have  my  reckoning — Either  you  lie. 
Under  the  skirt  of  sinless  majesty 
Shrouding  your  treason ;  or  if  that  indeed, 
Guilty  itself,  take  refuge  in  the  stars 
That  cannot  hear  the  charge,  or  disavow— 
You,  whether  doer  or  deviser,  who 
Come  first  to  hand,  shall  pay  the  penalty 
By  the  same  hand  you  owe  it  to — 

[Seizing  Clotaldo's  sword  and  about  to  strike  him. 

Enter  Rosaura  suddenly. 

RoSAURA. — Fie,  my  lord — forbear. 

What!  a  young  hand  raised  against  silver  hair? — 

[She  retreats  through  the  crowd. 


LIFE  A  DREAM 


«39 


Segismund. — Stay!    stay! — What  come  and  vanish'd  as  be- 
fore— 
I  scarce  remember  how — but — 
Voices  [wtthin], — Room  for  Astolfo,  Duke  of  Muscovy! 

Enter  Astolfo. 

Astolfo. — Welcome,  thrice  welcome,  the  auspicious  day, 

When  from  the  mountain  where  he  darkUng  lay, 

The  Polish  sun  into  the  firmament 

Sprung  all  the  brighter  for  his  late  ascent. 

And  in  meridian  glory — 
Segismund. —  Where  is  he? 

Why  must  I  ask  this  twice  ? — 
A  Lord. —  The  Page,  my  Lord  ? 

I  wonder  at  his  boldness — 
Segismund. —  But  I  tell  you 

He  came  with  Angel  written  in  his  face 

As  now  it  is,  when  all  was  black  as  hell 

About,  and  none  of  you  who  now — he  came. 

And  Angel-like  flung  me  a  shining  sword 

To  cut  my  way  through  darkness ;  and  again 

Angel-like  wrests  it  from  me  in  behalf 

Of  one — whom  I  will  spare  for  sparing  him : 

But  he  must  come  and  plead  with  that  same  voice 

That  pray'd  for  me — in  vain. 
Chamberlain. —  He  is  gone  for, 

And  shall  attend  your  pleasure,  sir.    Meanwhile, 

Will  not  your  Highness,  as  in  courtesy. 

Return  your  royal  cousin's  greeting? 
Segismund. —  Whose? 

Chamberlain. — Astolfo,  Duke  of  Muscovy,  my  Lord, 

Saluted,  and  with  gallant  compliment 

Welcomed  you  to  your  royal  title. 
Segismund  [to  Astolfo]. —  Oh — 

You  knew  of  this  then  ? 
Astolfo. —  Knew  of  what,  my  Lord  ? 

Segismund. — That  I  was  Prince  of  Poland  all  the  while, 

And  you  my  subject  ? 
Astolfo. —  Pardon  me,  my  Lord ; 

But  some  few  hours  ago  myself  I  leam'd 


240  CALDERON 

Your  dignity ;  but,  knowing  it,  no  more 
Than  when  I  knew  it  not,  your  subject. 

Segismund. —  What  then? 

AsTOLFO. — Your  Highness'  chamberlain  ev'n  now  has  told  you ; 
Astolfo,  Duke  of  Muscovy, 
Your  father's  sister's  son;  your  cousin,  sir: 
And  who  as  such,  and  in  his  own  right  Prince, 
Expects  from  you  the  courtesy  he  shows. 

Chamberlain, — His  Highness  is  as  yet  unused  to  Court, 
And  to  the  ceremonious  interchange 
Of  compliment,  especially  to  those 
Who  draw  their  blood  from  the  same  royal  fountain. 

Segismund. — Where  is  the  lad  ?   I  weary  of  all  this — 

Prince,  cousins,  chamberlains,  and  compliments — 
Where  are  my  soldiers?    Blow  the  trumpet,  and 
With  one  sharp  blast  scatter  these  butterflies, 
And  bring  the  men  of  iron  to  my  side. 
With  whom  a  king  feels  like  a  king  indeed ! 

Voices  [within]. — Within  there!    room  for  the  Princess  Es- 
trella ! 

Enter  Estrella  with  Ladies. 

Estrella. — Welcome,  my  Lord,  right  welcome  to  the  throne 
That  much  too  long  has  waited  for  your  coming: 
And,  in  the  general  voice  of  Poland,  hear 
A  kinswoman  and  cousin's  no  less  sincere. 

Segismund. — Ay,  this  is  welcome  welcome-worth  indeed, 
And  cousin  cousin-worth !    Oh,  I  have  thus 
Over  the  threshold  of  the  mountain  seen, 
Leading  a  bevy  of  fair  stars,  the  moon 
Enter  the  court  of  heav'n — My  kinswoman  1 
My  cousin !    But  my  subject  ? — 

Estrella. —  If  you  please 

To  count  your  cousin  for  your  subject,  sir, 
You  shall  not  find  her  a  disloyal. 

Segismund. —  Oh, 

But  there  are  twin  stars  in  that  heav'nly  face. 
That  now  I  know  for  having  over-ruled 
Those  evil  ones  that  darken'd  all  my  past. 
And  brought  me  forth  from  that  captivity 
To  be  the  slave  of  her  who  set  me  free. 


LIFE  A  DREAM  S41 

EsTRELLA — Indeed,  my  Lord,  these  eyes  have  no  such  power 
Over  the  past  or  present :   but  perhaps 
They  brighten  at  your  welcome  to  supply 
The  little  that  a  lady's  speech  commends ; 
And  in  the  hope  that,  let  whichever  be 
The  other's  subject,  we  may  both  be  friends. 

Segismund. — Your  hand  to  that — But  why  does  this  warm 
hana 
Shoot  a  cold  shudder  through  me  ? 

EsTRELLA. —  In  revenge 

For  likening  me  to  that  cold  moon,  perhaps. 

Segismund. — Oh,  but  the  lip  whose  music  tells  me  so 
Breathes  of  a  warmer  planet,  and  that  lip 
Shall  remedy  the  treason  of  the  hand ! 

[He  catches  to  embrace  her. 

Estrella. — Release  me,  sir! 

Chamberlain. —  And  pardon  me,  my  Lord, 

This  lady  is  a  Princess  absolute, 
As  Prince  he  is  who  just  saluted  you, 
And  claims  her  by  affiance. 

Segismund. —  Hence,  old  fool, 

Forever  thrusting  that  white  stick  of  yours 
Between  me  and  my  pleasure ! 

AsTOLFO. —  This  cause  is  mine. 

Forbear,  sir — 

Segismund. —  What,  sir  mouth-piece,  you  again? 

AsTOLFO. — My  Lord,  I  waive  your  insult  to  myself 
In  recognition  of  the  dignity 
You  yet  are  new  to,  and  that  greater  still 
You  look  in  time  to  wear.    But  for  this  lady — 
"Whom,  if  my  cousin  now,  I  hope  to  claim 
Henceforth  by  yet  a  nearer,  dearer  name — 

Segismund. — And  what  care  I?    She  is  my  cousin  too: 
And  if  you  be  a  Prince — well,  am  not  I  ? 
Lord  of  the  very  soil  you  stand  upon  ? 
By  that,  and  by  that  right  beside  of  blood 
That  like  a  fiery  fountain  hitherto 
Pent  in  the  rock  leaps  toward  her  at  her  touch. 
Mine,  before  all  the  cousins  in  Muscovy ! 
You  call  me  Prince  of  Poland,  and  yourselves 


242  CALDERON 

My  subjects — traitors  therefore  to  this  hour, 
Who  let  me  perish  all  my  youth  away 
Chain'd  there  among  the  mountains ;  till,  forsooth. 
Terrified  at  your  treachery  foregone, 
You  spirit  me  up  here,  I  know  not  how, 
Popinjay-like  invest  me  like  yourselves, 
Choke  me  with  scent  and  music  that  I  loathe. 
And,  worse  than  all  the  music  and  the  scent. 
With  false,  long-winged,  fulsome  compliment, 
That  "  Oh,  you  are  my  subjects  1  "  and  in  word 
Reiterating  still  obedience. 
Thwart  me  in  deed  at  every  step  I  take : 
When  just  about  to  wreak  a  just  revenge 
Upon  that  old  arch-traitor  of  you  all. 
Filch  from  my  vengeance  him  I  hate ;  and  him 
I  loved — the  first  and  only  face — till  this — 
I  cared  to  look  on  in  your  ugly  court — 
And  now  when  palpably  I  grasp  at  last 
What  hitherto  but  shadow'd  in  my  dreams — 
Affiances  and  interferences. 
The  first  who  dares  to  meddle  with  me  more — 
Princes  and  chamberlains  and  counsellors, 
Touch  her  who  dares ! — 
AsTOLFO. —  That  dare  I — 

Segismund  [seising  him  by  the  throat], — You  dare! 
Chamberlain. — My  Lord ! — 

A  Lord. —  His  strength  *s  a  lion's — 

Voices  [within], —  The  King!    The  King! — 

Enter  King. 

A  Lord. — And  on  a  sudden  how  he  stands  at  gaze, 
As  might  a  wolf  just  fasten'd  on  his  prey. 
Glaring  at  a  suddenly  encounter'd  lion. 

King. — And  I  that  hither  flew  with  open  arms 

To  fold  them  round  my  son,  must  now  return 
To  press  them  to  an  empty  heart  again ! 

[He  sits  on  the  throne. 

Segismund. — That  is  the  King? — My  father? — 

[After  a  long  pause]  I  have  heard 

That  sometimes  some  blind  instinct  has  been  known 


LIFE  A  DREAM 


«43 


To  draw  to  mutual  recognition  those 
Of  the  same  blood,  beyond  all  memory- 
Divided,  or  ev'n  never  met  before. 
I  know  not  how  this  is — perhaps  in  brutes 
That  live  by  kindlier  instincts — but  I  know 
That  looking  now  upon  that  head  whose  crown 
Pronounces  him  a  sovereign  king,  I  feel 
No  setting  of  the  current  in  my  blood 
Tow'rd  him  as  sire.    How  is  't  with  you,  old  man, 
Tow'rd  him  they  call  your  son? — 

King. —  Alas !    Alas  I 

Segismund. — Your  sorrow,  then? 

King. —  Beholding  what  I  do. 

Segismund. — Ay,  but  how  know  this  sorrow,  that  has  grown 
And  moulded  to  this  present  shape  of  man, 
As  of  your  own  creation  ? 

King. —  Ev'n  from  birth. 

Segismund. — But  from  that  hour  to  this,  near,  as  I  think. 
Some  twenty  such  renewals  of  the  year 
As  trace  themselves  upon  the  barren  rocks, 
I  never  saw  you,  nor  you  me — unless, 
Unless,  indeed,  through  one  of  those  dark  masks 
Through  which  a  son  might  fail  to  recognize 
The  best  of  fathers  ? 

King. —  Be  that  as  you  will : 

But,  now  we  see  each  other  face  to  face, 
Know  me  as  you  I  know ;  which  did  I  not, 
By  whatsoever  signs,  assuredly 
You  were  not  here  to  prove  it  at  my  risk. 

Segismund. — You  are  my  father. 

And  is  it  true  then,  as  Clotaldo  swears, 

'Twas  you  that  from  the  dawning  birth  of  one 

Yourself  brought  into  being — you,  I  say, 

Who  stole  his  very  birthright ;  not  alone 

That  secondary  and  peculiar  right 

Of  sovereignty,  but  even  that  prime 

Inheritance  that  all  men  share  alike. 

And  chain'd  him — chain'd  him! — like  a   wild  beast's 

whelp, 
Among  as  savage  mountains,  to  this  hour? 
Answer  if  this  be  thus. 


244  CALDERON 

King. —  Oh,  Segismund, 

In  all  that  I  have  done  that  seems  to  you, 
And,  without  further  hearing,  fairiy  seems, 
Unnatural  and  cruel — 'twas  not  I, 
But  One  who  writes  His  order  in  the  sky 
I  dared  not  misinterpret  nor  neglect, 
Who  knows  with  what  reluctance — 

Segismund. —  Oh,  those  stars, 

Those  stars,  that  too  far  up  from  human  blame 
To  clear  themselves,  or  careless  of  the  charge, 
Still  bear  upon  their  shining  shoulders  all 
The  guilt  men  shift  upon  them ! 

King. —  Nay,  but  think: 

Not  only  on  the  common  score  of  kind, 
But  that  peculiar  count  of  sovereignty — 
If  not  behind  the  beast  in  brain  as  heart, 
How  should  I  thus  deal  with  my  innocent  child, 
Doubly  desired,  and  doubly  dear  when  come, 
As  that  sweet  second-self  that  all  desire. 
And  princes  more  than  all,  to  root  themselves 
By  that  succession  in  their  people's  hearts  ? 
Unless  at  that  superior  Will,  to  which 
Not  kings  alone,  but  sovereign  nature  bows. 

Segismund. — And  what  had  those  same  stars  to  tell  of  me 
That  should  compel  a  father  and  a  king 
So  much  against  that  double  instinct  ? 

King.—  That, 

Which  I  have  brought  you  hither,  at  my  peril. 
Against  their  written  warning,  to  disprove. 
By  justice,  mercy,  human  kindUness. 

Segismund. — And  therefore  made  yourself  their  instrument 
To  make  your  son  the  savage  and  the  brute 
They  only  prophesied  ? — Are  you  not  afear'd. 
Lest,  irrespective  as  such  creatures  are 
Of  such  relationship,  the  brute  you  made 
Revenge  the  man  you  marr'd — like  sire,  like  son, 
To  do  by  you  as  you  by  me  have  done  ? 

King. — You  never  had  a  savage  heart  from  me ; 
I  may  appeal  to  Poland. 

Segismund. —  Then  from  whom? 


LIFE  A  DREAM  245 

If  pure  in  fountain,  poison'd  by  yourself 

When  scarce  begun  to  flow.     To  make  a  man 

Not,  as  I  see,  degraded  from  the  mould 

I  came  from,  nor  compared  to  those  about, 

And  then  to  throw  your  own  flesh  to  the  dogs ! — 

Why  not  at  once,  I  say,  if  terrified 

At  the  prophetic  omens  of  my  birth. 

Have  drown'd  or  stifled  me,  as  they  do  whelps 

Too  costly  or  too  dangerous  to  keep  ? 

King. — That,  living,  you  might  learn  to  live,  and  rule 
Yourself  and  Poland. 

Segismund. —  By  the  means  you  took 

To  spoil  for  either? 

King. —  Nay,  but,  Segismund ! 

You  know  not — cannot  know — happily  wanting 
The  sad  experience  on  which  knowledge  grows. 
How  the  too  early  consciousness  of  power 
Spoils  the  best  blood ;  nor  whether  for  your  long- 
Constrain'd  disheritance  (which,  but  for  me, 
Remember,  and  for  my  relenting  love 
Bursting  the  bond  of  fate,  had  been  eternal) 
You  have  not  now  a  full  indemnity ; 
Wearing  the  blossom  of  your  youth  unspent 
In  the  voluptuous  sunshine  of  a  court, 
That  often,  by  too  early  blossoming. 
Too  soon  deflowers  the  rose  of  royalty. 

Segismund. — Ay,  but' what  some  precocious  warmth  may  spill, 
May  not  an  early  frost  as  surely  kill  ? 

King, — But,  Segismund,  my  son,  whose  quick  discourse 
Proves  I  have  not  extinguish'd  and  destroy 'd 
The  Man  you  charge  me  with  extinguishing, 
However  it  condemn  me  for  the  fault 
Of  keeping  a  good  light  so  long  eclipsed, 
Reflect!    This  is  the  moment  upon  which 
Those  stars,  whose  eyes,  although  we  see  them  not, 
By  day  as  well  as  night  are  on  us  still. 
Hang  watching  up  in  the  meridian  heaven 
Which  way  the  balance  turns ;  and  if  to  you — 
As  by  your  dealing  God  decide  it  may. 
To  my  confusion ! — let  me  answer  it 


246  CALDERON 

Unto  yourself  alone,  who  shall  at  once 
Approve  yourself  to  be  your  father's  judge, 
And  sovereign  of  Poland  in  his  stead, 
By  justice,  mercy,  self-sobriety, 
And  all  the  reasonable  attributes 
Without  which,  impotent  to  rule  himself. 
Others  one  cannot,  and  one  must  not  rule ; 
But  which  if  you  but  show  the  blossom  of— 
All  that  is  past  we  shall  but  look  upon 
As  the  first  out-fling  of  a  generous  nature 
Rioting  in  first  liberty ;  and  if 
This  blossom  do  but  promise  such  a  flower 
As  promises  in  turn  its  kindly  fruit : 
Forthwith  upon  your  brows  the  royal  crown, 
That  now  weighs  heavy  on  my  aged  brows, 
I  will  devolve ;  and  while  I  pass  away 
Into  some  cloister,  with  my  Maker  there 
To  make  my  peace  in  penitence  and  prayer. 
Happily  settle  the  disorder'd  realm 
That  now  cries  loudly  for  a  lineal  heir. 

Segismund. — And  so — 

When  the  crown  falters  on  your  shaking  head. 

And  slips  the  sceptre  from  your  palsied  hand, 

And  Poland  for  her  rightful  heir  cries  out ; 

When  not  only  your  stol'n  monopoly 

Fails  you  of  earthly  power,  but  'cross  the  grave 

The  judgment-trumpet  of  another  world 

Calls  you  to  count  for  your  abuse  of  this ; 

Then,  oh  then,  terrified  by  the  double  danger. 

You  drag  me  from  my  den — 

Boast  not  of  giving  up  at  last  the  power 

You  can  no  longer  hold,  and  never  rightly 

Held,  but  in  fee  for  him  you  robb'd  it  from ; 

And  be  assured  your  Savage,  once  let  loose, 

Will  not  be  caged  again  so  quickly ;  not 

By  threat  or  adulation  to  be  tamed. 

Till  he  have  had  his  quarrel  out  with  those 

Who  made  him  what  he  is. 

King. —  Beware !   Beware ! 

Subdue  the  kindled  Tiger  in  your  eye. 


LIFE  A  DREAM  247 

Nor  dream  that  it  was  sheer  necessity 

Made  me  thus  far  relax  the  bond  of  fate, 

And,  with  far  more  of  terror  than  of  hope 

Threaten  myself,  my  people,  and  the  State. 

Know  that,  if  old,  I  yet  have  vigor  left 

To  wield  the  sword  as  well  as  wear  the  crown ; 

And  if  my  more  immediate  issue  fail, 

Not  wanting  scions  of  collateral  blood, 

Whose  wholesome  growth  shall  more  than  compensate 

For  all  the  loss  of  a  distorted  stem. 

Segismund. — That  will  I  straightway  bring  to  trial — Oh, 
After  a  revelation  such  as  this, 
The  Last  Day  shall  have  little  left  to  show 
Of  righted  wrong  and  villainy  requited ! 
Nay,  Judgment  now  beginning  upon  earth. 
Myself,  methinks,  in  right  of  all  my  wrongs, 
Appointed  heav'n's  avenging  minister, 
Accuser,  judge,  and  executioner, 
Sword  in  hand,  cite  the  guilty — First,  as  worst. 
The  usurper  of  his  son's  inheritance ; 
Him  and  his  old  accomplice,  time  and  crime 
Inveterate,  and  unable  to  repay 
The  golden  years  of  life  they  stole  away. 
What,  does  he  yet  maintain  his  state,  and  keep 
The  throne  he  should  be  judged  from?    Down  with  him, 
That  I  may  trample  on  the  false  white  head 
So  long  has  worn  my  crown  !    Where  are  my  soldiers  ? 
Of  all  my  subjects  and  my  vassals  here 
Not  one  to  do  my  bidding?    Hark !    A  trumpet ! 
The  trumpet — 

[He  pauses  as  the  trumpet  sounds,  and  masked  soldiers  grad- 
ually ail  in  behind  the  throne. 

King   [rising  before  his  throne]. — Ay,  indeed,  the  trumpet 
hiows 
A  memorable  note,  to  summon  those 
Who,  if  forthwith  you  fall  not  at  the  feet 
Of  him  whose  head  you  threaten  with  the  dust, 
Forthwith  shall  draw  the  curtain  of  the  Past 
About  you ;  and  this  momentary  gleam 
Of  glory,  that  you  think  to  hold  life-fast, 
So  coming,  so  shall  vanish,  as  a  dream. 


248  CALDERON 

Segismund. — He  prophesies ;  the  old  man  prophesies ; 
And,  at  his  trumpet's  summons,  from  the  tower 
The  leash-bound  shadows  loosen'd  after  me 
My  rising  glory  reach  and  over-lour — 
But,  reach  not  I  my  height,  he  shall  not  hold, 
But  with  me  back  to  his  own  darkness ! 

[He  dashes  toward  the  throne  and  is  enclosed  by  the  soldiers. 

Traitors ! 
Hold  off!    Unhand  me! — Am  not  I  your  king? 
And  you  would  strangle  him ! — 
But  I  am  breaking  with  an  inward  fire 
Shall  scorch  you  off,  and  wrap  me  on  the  wings 
Of  conflagration  from  a  kindled  pyre 
Of  lying  prophecies  and  prophet-kings 
Above  the  extinguish'd  stars — Reach  me  the  sword 
He  flung  me — Fill  me  such  a  bowl  of  wine 
As  that  you  woke  the  day  with — 

King. —  And  shall  close — 

But  of  the  vintage  that  Clotaldo  knows. 


ACT  THIRD 

Scene  I. — The  Tozver,  as  in  Scene  I.  of  Act  First.     Segis- 
mund, as  at  first,  and  Clotaldo. 

Clotaldo. — Princes  and  princesses,  and  counsellors, 
Fluster'd  to  right  and  left — my  life  made  at — 
But  that  was  nothing — 
Even  the  white-hair'd,  venerable  King 
Seized  on — Indeed,  you  made  wild  work  of  it ; 
And  so  discover'd  in  your  outward  action, 
Flinging  your  arms  about  you  in  your  sleep, 
Grinding  your  teeth — and,  as  I  now  remember. 
Woke  mouthing  out  judgment  and  execution, 
On  those  about  you. 

Segismund. —  Ay,  I  did  indeed. 

Clotaldo. — Ev'n  now  your  eyes  stare  wild ;  your  hair  stands 
up— 


LIFE  A   DREAM 

Your  pulses  throb  and  flutter,  reeling  still 

Under  the  storm  of  such  a  dream — 
Segismund. —  A  dream  1 

That  seem'd  as  swearable  reality 

As  what  I  wake  in  now. 
Clotaldo. —  Ay — wondrous  how 

Imagination  in  a  sleeping  brain 

Out  of  the  uncontingent  senses  draws 

Sensations  strong  as  from  the  real  touch ; 

That  we  not  only  laugh  aloud,  and  drench 

With  tears  our  pillow  ;  but  in  the  agony 

Of  some  imaginary  conflict,  fight 

And  struggle — ev'n  as  you  did  ;  some,  'tis  thought, 

Under  the  dreamt-of  stroke  of  death  have  died. 
Segismund. — And  what  so  very  strange  too — In  that  world 

Where  place  as  well  as  people  all  was  strange, 

Ev'n  I  almost  as  strange  unto  myself. 

You  only,  you,  Clotaldo — you,  as  much 

And  palpably  yourself  as  now  you  are, 

Came  in  this  very  garb  you  ever  wore, 

By  such  a  token  of  the  past,  you  said. 

To  assure  me  of  that  seeming  present. 
Clotaldo. —  Ay  ? 

Segismund. — Ay ;  and  even  told  me  of  the  very  stars 

You  tell  me  here  of — how  in  spite  of  them, 

I  was  enlarged  to  all  that  glory. 
Clotaldo. —  Ay, 

By  the  false  spirits'  nice  contrivance  thus 

A  little  truth  oft  leavens  all  the  false. 

The  better  to  delude  us. 
Segismund. —  For  you  know 

'Tis  nothing  but  a  dream  ? 
Clotaldo. —  Nay,  you  yourself 

Know  best  how  lately  you  awoke  from  that 

You  know  you  went  to  sleep  on  ? — 

Why,  have  you  never  dreamt  the  like  before  ? 
Segismund. — Never,  to  such  reality. 
Clotaldo. —  Such  dreams 

Are  oftentimes  the  sleeping  exhalations 

Of  that  ambition  that  lies  smouldering 


249 


85©  CALDERON 

Under  the  ashes  of  the  lowest  fortune ; 

By  which,  when  reason  slumbers,  or  has  lost 

The  reins  of  sensible  comparison, 

We  fly  at  something  higher  than  we  are — 

Scarce  ever  dive  to  lower — to  be  kings. 

Or  conquerors,  crown'd  with  laurel  or  with  gold, 

Nay,  mounting  heav'n  itself  on  eagle  wings. 

Which,  by  the  way,  now  that  I  think  of  it, 

May  furnish  us  the  key  to  this  high  flight — 

That  royal  Eagle  we  were  watching,  and 

Talking  of  as  you  went  to  sleep  last  night. 

Segismund. — Last  night?    Last  night? 

Clotaldo. —  Ay,  do  you  not  remember 

Envying  his  immunity  of  flight. 
As,  rising  from  his  throne  of  rock,  he  sail'd 
Above  the  mountains  far  into  the  West, 
That  burn'd  about  him,  while  with  poising  wings 
He  darkled  in  it  as  a  burning  brand 
Is  seen  to  smoulder  in  the  fire  it  feeds? 

Segismund. — Last  night — last  night — Oh,  what  a  day  was  that 
Between  that  last  night  and  this  sad  To-day ! 

Clotaldo. — And  yet,  perhaps. 

Only  some  few  dark  moments,  into  which 
Imagination,  once  ht  up  within 
And  unconditional  of  time  and  space, 
Can  pour  infinities. 

Segismund. —  And  I  remember 

How  the  old  man  they  call'd  the  King,  who  wore 

The  crown  of  gold  about  his  silver  hair. 

And  a  mysterious  girdle  round  his  waist. 

Just  when  my  rage  was  roaring  at  its  height, 

And  after  which  it  all  was  dark  again, 

Bid  me  beware  lest  all  should  be  a  dream. 

Clotaldo. — Ay — there  another  specialty  of  dreams, 

That  once  the  dreamer  'gins  to  dream  he  dreams. 
His  foot  is  on  the  very  verge  of  waking. 

Segismund. — Would  it  had  been  upon  the  verge  of  death 
That  knows  no  waking — 
Lifting  me  up  to  glory,  to  fall  back, 
Stunn'd,  crippled — wretcheder  than  ev'n  before. 


LIFE  A  DREAM  251 

Clotaldo. — Yet  not  so  glorious,  Segismund,  if  you 

Your  visionary  honor  M'ore  so  ill 

As  to  work  murder  and  revenge  on  those 

Who  meant  you  well. 
Segismund. —  Who  meant  me ! — me !   their  Prince 

Chain'd  like  a  felon — 
Clotaldo. —  Stay,  stay — Not  so  fast, 

You  dream'd  the  Prince,  remember. 
Segismund. —  Then  in  dream 

Revenged  it  only. 
Clotaldo. — True.    But  as  they  say 

Dreams  are  rough  copies  of  the  waking  soul 

Yet  uncorrected  of  the  higher  Will, 

So  that  men  sometimes  in  their  dreams  confess 

An  unsuspected,  or  forgotten,  self ; 

One  must  beware  to  check — ^ay,  if  one  may, 

Stifle  ere  born,  such  passion  in  ourselves 

As  makes,  we  see,  such  havoc  with  our  sleep, 

And  ill  reacts  upon  the  waking  day. 

And,  by  the  bye,  for  one  test,  Segismund, 

Between  such  swearable  realities — 

Since  Dreaming,  Madness,  Passion,  are  akin 

In  missing  each  that  salutary  rein 

Of  reason,  and  the  guiding  will  of  man : 

One  test,  I  think,  of  waking  sanity 

Shall  be  that  conscious  power  of  self-control, 

To  curb  all  passion,  but  much  most  of  all 

That  evil  and  vindictive,  that  ill  squares 

With  human,  and  with  holy  canon  less, 

Which  bids  us  pardon  ev'n  our  enemies, 

And  much  more  those  who,  out  of  no  ill  will, 

Mistakenly  have  taken  up  the  rod 

Which  heav'n,  they  think,  has  put  into  their  hands. 
Segismund. — I  think  I  soon  shall  have  to  try  again — 

Sleep  has  not  yet  done  with  me. 
Clotaldo. —  Such  a  sleep. 

Take  my  advice — 'tis  early  yet — the  sun 

Scarce  up  above  the  mountain ;  go  within. 

And  if  the  night  deceived  you,  try  anew 

With  morning;  morning  dreams  they  say  come  true. 


252 


CALDERON 


Segismund. — Oh,  rather  pray  for  me  a  sleep  so  fast 
As  shall  obliterate  dream  and  waking  too. 

[Exit  into  the  toiver, 

Clotaldo. — So  sleep;   sleep  fast:  and  sleep  away  those  two 
Night-potions,  and  the  waking  dream  between 
Which  dream  thou  must  believe  ;  and,  if  to  see 
Again,  poor  Segismund !  that  dream  must  be. 
And  yet,  and  yet,  in  these  our  ghostly  lives, 
Half  night,  half  day,  half  sleeping,  half  awake. 
How  if  our  waking  life,  like  that  of  sleep. 
Be  all  a  dream  in  that  eternal  life 
To  which  we  wake  not  till  we  sleep  in  death  ? 
How  if,  I  say,  the  senses  we  now  trust 
For  date  of  sensible  comparison — 
Ay,  ev'n  the  Reason's  self  that  dates  with  them, 
Should  be  in  essence  or  intensity 
Hereafter  so  transcended,  and  awoke 
To  a  perceptive  subtlety  so  keen 
As  to  confess  themselves  befool'd  before. 
In  all  that  now  they  will  avouch  for  most  ? 
One  man — like  this — but  only  so  much  longer 
As  life  is  longer  than  a  summer's  day. 
Believed  himself  a  king  upon  his  throne, 
And  play'd  at  hazard  with  his  fellows'  lives, 
Who  cheaply  dream'd  away  their  lives  to  him. 
The  sailor  dream'd  of  tossing  on  the  flood : 
The  soldier  of  his  laurels  grown  in  blood : 
The  lover  of  the  beauty  that  he  knew 
Must  yet  dissolve  to  dusty  residue : 
The  merchant  and  the  miser  of  his  bags 
Of  finger'd  gold  ;  the  beggar  of  his  rags : 
And  all  this  stage  of  earth  on  which  we  seem 
Such  busy  actors,  and  the  parts  we  play'd, 
Substantial  as  the  shadow  of  a  shade. 
And  Dreaming  but  a  dream  within  a  dream ! 

Fife. — Was  it  not  said,  sir. 

By  some  philosopher  as  yet  unborn, 

That  any  chimney-sweep  who  for  twelve  hours 

Dreams  himself  king  is  happy  as  the  king 

Who  dreams  himself  twelve  hours  a  chimney-sweep? 


LIFE  A   DREAM 


253 


Clotaldo. — A  theme  indeed  for  wiser  heads  than  yours 

To  moralize  upon — How  came  you  here? — 
Fife. — Not  of  my  own  will,  I  assure  you,  sir. 

No  matter  for  myself :  but  I  would  know 

About  my  mistress — I  mean,  master — 
Clotalix). —  Oh, 

Now  I  remember — Well,  your  master-mistress 

Is  well,  and  deftly  on  its  errand  speeds, 

As  you  shall — if  you  can  but  hold  your  tongue. 

Can  you? 
Fife. —  I'd  rather  be  at  home  again. 

Clotaldo. — Where  you  shall  be  the  quicker  if  while  here 

You  can  keep  silence. 
Fife. —  I  may  whistle,  then? 

Which  by  the  virtue  of  my  name  I  do, 

And  also  as  a  reasonable  test 

Of  waking  sanity — 
Clotaldo. —  Well,  whistle  then ; 

And  for  another  reason  you  forgot, 

That  while  you  whistle,  you  can  chatter  not. 

Only  remember — if  you  quit  this  pass — 
Fife. — (His  rhymes  are  out,  or  he  had  call'd  it  spot) — 
Clotaldo. — A  bullet  brings  you  to. 

I  must  forthwith  to  court  to  tell  the  King 

The  issue  of  this  lamentable  day, 

That  buries  all  his  hope  in  night.     [To  Fife]    Farewell. 

Remember. 
Fife. —  But  a  moment — but  a  word ! 

When  shall  I  see  my  mis — mas — 
Clotaldo. —  Be  content : 

All  in  good  time ;  and  then,  and  not  before, 

Never  to  miss  your  master  any  more.  [Exit. 

Fife. — Such  calk  of  dreaming — dreaming — I  begin 

To  doubt  if  I  be  dreaming  I  am  Fife, 

Who  with  a  lad  who  call'd  herself  a  boy 

Because — I  doubt  there's  some  confusion  here — 

He  wore  no  petticoat,  came  on  a  time 

Riding  from  Muscovy  on  half  a  horse. 

Who  must  have  dreamt  she  was  a  horse  entire. 

To  cant  me  off  upon  the  ground  my  hinder  face 


254  CALDERON 

Under  this  tower,  wall-eyed  and  musket-tong^ed, 

With  sentinels  a-pacing  up  and  down, 

Crying  All's  well  when  all  is  far  from  well, 

All  the  day  long,  and  all  the  night,  until 

I  dream — if  what  is  dreaming  be  not  waking — 

Of  bells  a-tolling  and  processions  rolling 

With  candles,  crosses,  banners,  San-benitos, 

Of  which  I  wear  the  flamy-finingest, 

Through  streets  and  places  throng'd  with  fiery  faces 

To  some  back  platform — 

Oh,  I  shall  take  a  fire  into  my  hand 

With  thinking  of  my  own  dear  Muscovy — 

Only  just  over  that  Sierra  there, 

By  which  we  tumbled  headlong  into — No-land. 

Now,  if  without  a  bullet  after  me, 

I  could  but  get  a  peep  of  my  old  home — 

Perhaps  of  my  own  mule  to  take  me  there — 

All's  still — perhaps  the  gentlemen  within 

Are  dreaming  it  is  night  behind  their  masks — 

God  send  'em  a  good  nightmare ! — Now  then — Hark ! 

Voices — and  up  the  rocks — and  armed  men 

Climbing  like  cats — Puss  in  the  corner  then.    [He  hides. 

Enter  Soldiers  cautiously  up  the  rocks. 

Captain. — This  is  the  frontier  pass,  at  any  rate, 

Where  Poland  ends  and  Muscovy  begins. 
Soldier. — We  must  be  close  upon  the  tower,  I  know, 

That  half  way  up  the  mountain  lies  ensconced. 
Captain. — How  know  you  that  ? 
First  Soldier. —  He  told  me  so — the  Page 

Who  put  us  on  the  scent. 
Second  Soldier, —  And,  as  I  think, 

Will  soon  be  here  to  run  it  down  with  us. 
Captain. — Meantime,  our  horses  on  these  ugly  rocks 

Useless,  and  worse  than  useless  with  their  clatter—^ 

Leave  them  behind,  with  one  or  two  in  charge. 

And  softly,  softly,  softly. 
First  Soldier. —  There  it  is! 

Second  Soldier. — There  what? — 
First  Soldier. —  The  tower — the  fortress — 


LIFE  A  DREAM  25^ 

Second  Soldier. —  That  the  tower  I — 

First  Soldier. — That  mouse-trap!     We  could  pitch  it  down 
the  rocks 

With  our  own  hands. 
Second  Soldier. —  The  rocks  it  hangs  among 

Dwarf  its  proportions  and  conceal  its  strength ; 

Larger  and  stronger  than  you  think. 
First  Soldier. —  No  matter; 

No  place  for  Poland's  Prince  to  be  shut  up  in. 

At  it  at  once ! 
Captain. — No — no — I  tell  you  wait — 

Till  those  within  give  signal.    For  as  yet 

We  know  not  who  side  with  us,  and  the  fort 

Is  strong  in  man  and  musket. 
A  Soldier. —  Shame  to  wait 

For  odds  with  such  a  cause  at  stake. 
Captain. —  Because 

Of  such  a  cause  at  stake  we  wait  for  odds — 

For  if  not  won  at  once,  for  ever  lost: 

For  any  long  resistance  on  their  part 

Would  bring  Basilio's  force  to  succor  them 

Ere  we  had  rescued  him  we  come  to  rescue. 

So  softly,  softly,  softly,  still — 
A  Soldier  [discovering  Fife]. — Hilloa! 
First  Soldier. — Hilloa !    Here's  some  one  skulking — 
Second  Soldier. —  Seize  and  gag  him! 

Third  Soldier. — Stab  him  at  once,  say  I :  the  only  way 

To  make  all  sure. 
Fourth  Soldier. —  Hold,  every  man  of  you ! 

And  down  upon  your  knees ! — Why,  'tis  the  Prince ! 
First  Soldier. — The  Prince! — 
Fourth  Soldier. —  Oh,  I  should  know  him  anywhere, 

And  anyhow  disguised. 
First  Soldier. —  But  the  Prince  is  chain'd. 

Second  Soldier. — And  of  a  loftier  presence — 
Fourth  Soldier. —  'Tis  he,  I  tell  you ; 

Only  bewilder'd  as  he  was  before. 

God  save  your  Royal  Highness !    On  our  knees 

Beseech  you  answer  us ! 
Fife. —  Just  as  you  please. 

Classics.     Vol.  36 — 1> 


256  CALDERON 

Well — 'tis  this  country's  custom,  I  suppose, 

To  take  a  poor  man  every  now  and  then 

And  set  him  on  the  throne ;  just  for  the  fun 

Of  tumbling  him  again  into  the  dirt. 

And  now  my  turn  is  come.    'Tis  very  pretty. 
A  Soldier. — His  wits  have  been  distemper'd  with  their  drugs. 

But  do  you  ask  him,  Captain. 
Captain. —  On  my  knees, 

And  in  the  name  of  all  who  kneel  with  me, 

I  do  beseech  your  Highness  answer  to 

Your  royal  title. 
Fife. —  Still,  just  as  you  please. 

In  my  own  poor  opinion  of  myself — 

But  that  may  all  be  dreaming,  which  it  seems 

Is  very  much  the  fashion  in  this  country — 

No  Polish  prince  at  all,  but  a  poor  lad 

From  Muscovy ;   where  only  help  me  back, 

I  promise  never  to  contest  the  crown 

Of  Poland  with  whatever  gentleman 

You  fancy  to  set  up. 
First  Soldier. — From  Muscovy? 
Second  Soldier. — A  spy  then — 
Third  Soldier. —  Of  Astolfo's — 

First  Soldier. —  Spy !  a  spy  f^ 

Second  Soldier. — Hang  him  at  once ! 

Fife. —  No,  pray  don't  dream  of  that! 

A  Soldier. — How  dared  you  then  set  yourself  up  for  our 

Prince  Segismund? 
Fife. —  /  set  up ! — I  like  that — 

When  'twas  yourselves  be-segismunded  me. 
Captain. — No  matter — Look ! — The  signal  from  the  tower. 

Prince  Segismund ! 
A  Soldier  [from  the  tower], — Prince  Segismund! 
Captain. —  All's  well 

Clotaldo  safe  secured  ? — 
A  Soldier  [from  the  tozver]. — No — ^by  ill  luck, 

Instead  of  coming  in,  as  we  had  look'd  for. 

He  sprang  on  horse  at  once,  and  off  at  gallop. 
Captain. — To  Court,  no  doubt — a  blunder  that — And  yet 

Perchance  a  blunder  that  may  work  as  well 

As  better  forethought.    Having  no  suspicion. 


LIFE  A   DREAM  257 

So  will  he  carry  none  where  his  not  going 

Were  of  itself  suspicious.    But  of  those 

Within,  who  side  with  us  ? 
A  Soldier. —  Oh,  one  and  all 

To  the  last  man,  persuaded  or  compell'd. 
Captain. — Enough :    whatever  be  to  be  retrieved. 

No  moment  to  be  lost.     For  though  Clotaldo 

Have  no  revolt  to  tell  of  in  the  tower, 

The  capital  will  soon  awake  to  ours, 

And  the  King's  force  come  blazing  after  us. 

Where  is  the  Prince  ? 
A  Soldier. —  Within  ;   so  fast  asleep 

We  woke  him  not  ev'n  striking  off  the  chain 

We  had  so  cursedly  helped  bind  him  with, 

Not  knowing  what  we  did  ;  but  too  ashamed 

Not  to  undo  ourselves  what  we  had  done. 
Captain. — No  matter,  nor  by  whosesoever  hands, 

Provided  done.    Come ;  we  will  bring  him  forth 

Out  of  that  stony  darkness  here  abroad, 

Where  air  and  sunshine  sooner  shall  disperse 

The  sleepy  fume  which  they  have  drugg'd  him  with. 
[They  enter  the  tower,  and  thence  bring  out  Segismund  asleep 

on  a  pallet,  and  set  him  in  the  middle  of  the  stage. 
Captain. — Still,  still  so  dead  asleep,  the  very  noise 

And  motion  that  we  make  in  carrying  him 

Stirs  not  a  leaf  in  all  the  living  tree. 
A  Soldier. — If  living — But  if  by  some  inward  blow 

Forever  and  irrevocably  fell'd 

By  what  strikes  deeper  to  the  root  than  sleep? 
First  Soldier. — He's  dead !    He's  dead !    They've  killed  him — 
Second  Soldier. —  No — he  breathes — 

And  the  heart  beats — and  now  he  breathes  again 

Deeply,  as  one  about  to  shake  away 

The  load  of  sleep. 
Captain. —  Come,  let  us  all  kneel  round. 

And  with  a  blast  of  warlike  instruments, 

And  acclamation  of  all  loyal  hearts, 

Rouse  and  restore  him  to  his  royal  right, 

From  which  no  royal  wrong  shall  drive  him  more, 

[They  all  kneel  round  his  bed:  trumpets,  drums. 


258  CALDERON 

Soldiers. — Segismund !   Segismund !   Prince  Segismund ! 
King  Segismund  !    Down  with  Basilio ! 
Down  with  Astolfo!     Segismund  our  King! 

First  Soldier. — He  stares  upon  us  wildly.    He  cannot  speak. 

Second  Soldier. — I  said  so— driv'n  him  mad. 

Third  Soldier. —  Speak  to  him,  Captain. 

Captain. — Oh  Royal  Segismund,  our  Prince  and  King, 
Look  on  us — listen  to  us — answer  us. 
Your  faithful  soldiery  and  subjects,  now 
About  you  kneeling,  but  on  fire  to  rise 
And  cleave  a  passage  through  your  enemies. 
Until  we  seat  you  on  your  lawful  throne. 
For  though  your  father,  King  Basilio, 
Now  King  of  Poland,  jealous  of  the  stars 
That  prophesy  his  setting  with  your  rise, 
Here  holds  you  ignominiously  eclipsed. 
And  would  Astolfo,  Duke  of  Muscovy, 
Mount  to  the  throne  of  Poland  after  him ; 
So  will  not  we,  your  loyal  soldiery 
And  subjects;  neither  those  of  us  now  first 
Apprised  of  your  existence  and  your  right: 
Nor  those  that  hitherto  deluded  by 
Allegiance  false,  their  vizors  now  fling  down, 
And  craving  pardon  on  their  knees  with  us 
For  that  unconscious  disloyalty. 
Offer  with  us  the  service  of  their  blood ; 
Not  only  we  and  they ;  but  at  our  heels 
The  heart,  if  not  the  bulk,  of  Poland  follows 
To  join  their  voices  and  their  arms  with  ours. 
In  vindicating  with  our  lives  our  own 
Prince  Segismund  to  Poland  and  her  throne. 

Soldiers. — Segismund,  Segismund,  Prince  Segismund! 

Our  own  King  Segismund.  [They  all  rise. 

Segismund. — Again?  So  soon? — What,  not  yet  done  with  me? 
The  sun  is  little  higher  up,  I  think, 
Than  when  I  last  lay  down, 
To  bury  in  the  depth  of  your  own  sea 
You  that  infest  its  shallows. 

Captain. —  Sir ! 

Segismund. —  And  now. 


LIFE   A   DREAM  259 

Not  in  a  palace,  not  in  the  fine  clothes 
We  all  were  in ;  but  here,  in  the  old  place. 
And  in  our  old  accoutrement — 
Only  your  vizors  off,  and  lips  unlockt 
To  mock  me  with  that  idle  title — 

Captain. —  Nay, 

Indeed  no  idle  title,  but  your  own, 
Then,  now,  and  now  forever.    For,  behold, 
Ev'n  as  I  speak,  the  mountain  passes  fill 
And  bristle  with  the  advancing  soldiery 
That  glitters  in  your  rising  glory,  sir; 
And,  at  our  signal,  echo  to  our  cry, 
"  Segismund,  King  of  Poland!  "      [Shouts  and  trumpets. 

Segismund. —  Oh,  how  cheap 

The  muster  of  a  countless  host  of  shadows. 
As  imp~)tent  to  do  with  as  to  keep! 
All  this  they  said  before — to  softer  music. 

Captain. — Soft  music,  sir,  to  what  indeed  were  shadows. 
That,  following  the  sunshine  of  a  Court, 
Shall  back  be  brought  with  it — if  shadows  still, 
Yet  to  substantial  reckoning. 

Segismund. —  They  shall? 

The  white-hair'd  and  white-w^anded  chamberlain. 
So  busy  with  his  wand  too — the  old  King 
That  I  was  somewhat  hard  on — he  had  been 
Hard  upon  me — and  the  fine  feather'd  Prince 
Who  crow'd  so  loud — my  cousin — and  another, 
Another  cousin,  w^e  will  not  bear  hard  on — 
And— But  Clotaldo  ? 

Captain. —  Fled,  my  Lord,  but  close 

Pursued ;  and  then — 

Segismund. —  Then,  as  he  fled  before. 

And  after  he  had  sworn  it  on  his  knees. 
Came  back  to  take  me — where  I  am ! — No  more, 
No  more  of  this !    Away  with  you  !    Begone ! 
Whether  but  visions  of  ambitious  night 
That  morning  ought  to  scatter,  or  grown  out 
Of  night's  proportions  you  invade  the  day 
To  scare  me  from  my  little  wits  yet  left. 


26o  CALDERON 

Begone !    I  know  I  must  be  near  awake, 
Knowing  I  dream  ;  or,  if  not  at  my  voice. 
Then  vanish  at  the  clapping  of  my  hands. 
Or  take  this  foolish  fellow  for  your  sport: 
Dressing  me  up  in  visionary  glories, 
Which  the  first  air  of  waking  consciousness 
Scatters  as  fast  as  from  the  almander* — 
That,  waking  one  fine  morning  in  full  flower, 
One  rougher  insurrection  of  the  breeze 
Of  all  her  sudden  honor  disadorns 
To  the  last  blossom,  and  she  stands  again 
The  winter-naked  scare-crow  that  she  was! 

Captain. — I  know  not  what  to  do,  nor  what  to  say. 
With  all  this  dreaming ;  1  begin  to  doubt 
They  have  driv'n  him  mad  indeed,  and  he  and  we 
Are  lost  together. 

A  Soldier  [to  Captain]. — Stay,  stay;    I  remember — 
Hark  in  your  ear  a  moment.     [Whispers. 

Captain. —  So— so — so?— 

Oh,  now  indeed  I  do  not  wonder,  sir, 
Your  senses  dazzle  under  practices 
Which  treason,  shrinking  from  its  own  device, 
Would  now  persuade  you  only  was  a  dream ; 
But  waking  was  as  absolute  as  this 
You  wake  in  now,  as  some  who  saw  you  then. 
Prince  as  you  were  and  are,  can  testify : 
Not  only  saw,  but  under  false  allegiance 
Laid  hands  upon — 

First  Soldier. —  I,  to  my  shame ! 

Second  Soldier. —  And  II 

Captain. — Who,  to  wipe  out  that  shame,  have  been  the  first 

To  stir  and  lead  us — Hark !  [Shouts,  trumpets. 

A  Soldier. —  Our  forces,  sir. 

Challenging  King  Basilio's,  now  in  sight. 
And  bearing  down  upon  us. 

Captain. —  Sir,  you  hear; 

A  Httle  hesitation  and  delay, 
And  all  is  lost — your  own  right,  and  the  lives 

*  Almander,  or  almandre,  Chaucer's  word  for  almond-tree,  "Romaunt  of  the  Rose," 
1363. 


LIFE  A  DREAM  361 

Of  those  who  now  maintain  it  at  that  cost ; 

With  you  all  saved  and  won ;  without,  all  lost. 

That  former  recognition  of  your  right 

Grant  but  a  dream,  if  you  will  have  it  so; 

Great  things  forecast  themselves  by  shadows  great: 

Or  will  you  have  it,  this  like  that  dream  too. 

People,  and  place,  and  time  itself,  all  dream — 

Yet,  being  in't,  and  as  the  shadows  come 

Quicker  and  thicker  than  you  can  escape. 

Adopt  your  visionary  soldiery, 

Who,  having  struck  a  solid  chain  away, 

Now  put  an  airy  sword  into  your  hand, 

And  harnessing  you  piecemeal  till  you  stand 

Amidst  us  all  complete  in  glittering, 

If  unsubstantial,  steel — 

RoSAURA  [nnthout]. — The  Prince!    The  Prince! 

Captain. — Who  calls  for  him  ? 

A  Soldier. —  The  Page  who  spurr'd  us  hither, 

And  now,  dismounted  from  a  foaming  horse — 

Enter  Rosaura. 

RosAURA, — Where  is — but  where  I  need  no  further  ask 
Where  the  majestic  presence,  all  in  arms. 
Mutely  proclaims  and  vindicates  himself. 

Fife. — My  darhng  Lady-lord — 

Rosaura. —  My  own  good  Fife, 

Keep  to  my  side — and  silence ! — Oh,  my  Lord, 
For  the  third  time  behold  me  here  where  first 
You  saw  me,  by  a  happy  misadventure 
Lx)sing  my  own  way  here  to  find  it  out 
For  you  to  follow  with  these  loyal  men. 
Adding  the  moment  of  my  little  cause 
To  yours ;  which,  so  much  mightier  as  it  is. 
By  a  strange  chance  runs  hand  in  hand  with  mine ; 
The  self-same  foe  who  now  pretends  your  right. 
Withholding  mine — that,  of  itself  alone, 
I  know  the  royal  blood  that  runs  in  you 
Would  vindicate,  regardless  of  your  own: 
The  right  of  injured  innocence;  and,  more. 
Spite  of  this  epicene  attire,  a  woman's ; 


,62  CALDERON 

And  of  a  noble  stock  I  will  not  name 
Till  I,  who  brought  it,  have  retrieved  the  shame. 
Whom  Duke  Astolfo,  Pnnce  of  Muscovy, 
With  all  the  solemn  vows  of  wedlock  won, 
And  would  have  wedded,  as  I  do  believe, 
Had  not  the  cry  of  Poland  for  a  Prince 
Call'd  him  from  Muscovy  to  join  the  prize 
Of  Poland  with  the  fair  Estrella's  eyes. 
I,  following  him  hither,  as  you  saw, 
Was  cast  upon  these  rocks ;  arrested  by 
Clotaldo :  who,  for  an  old  debt  of  love 
He  owes  my  family,  with  all  his  might 
Served,  and  had  served  me  further,  till  my  cause 
Clash'd  with  his  duty  to  his  sovereign, 
Which,  as  became  a  loyal  subject,  sir, 
(And  never  sovereign  had  a  loyaller,) 
Was  still  his  first.    He  carried  me  to  Court, 
Where  for  the  second  time,  I  cross'd  your  path; 
Where,  as  I  watch'd  my  opportunity. 
Suddenly  broke  this  public  passion  out ; 
Which,  drowning  private  into  public  wrong, 
Yet  swiftlier  sweeps  it  to  revenge  along. 
Segismund. — Oh  God,  if  this  be  dreaming,  charge  it  not 
To  burst  the  channel  of  enclosing  sleep 
And  drown  the  waking  reason !    Not  to  dream 
Only  what  dreamt  shall  once  or  twice  again 
Return  to  buzz  about  the  sleeping  brain 
Till  shaken  off  forever — 
But  reassailing  one  so  quick,  so  thick — 
The  very  figure  and  the  circumstance 
Of  sense-confest  reality  foregone 
In  so-call'd  dream  so  palpably  repeated, 
The  copy  so  like  the  original. 
We  know  not  which  is  which ;  and  dream  so-caird 
Itself  inweaving  so  inextricably 
Into  the  tissue  of  acknowledged  truth ; 
The  very  figures  that  empeople  it 
Returning  to  assert  themselves  no  phantoms 
In  something  so  much  like  meridian  day. 
And  in  the  very  place  that  not  my  worst 


LIFE  A  DREAM  363 

And  veriest  disenchanter  shall  deny 

For  the  too  well-remember'd  theatre 

Of  my  long  tragedy — Strike  up  the  drums  I 

If  this  be  Truth,  and  all  of  us  awake, 

Indeed  a  famous  quarrel  is  at  stake : 

If  but  a  Vision  1  will  see  it  out. 

And,  drive  the  Dream,  I  can  but  join  the  rout. 

Captain. — And  in  good  time,  sir,  for  a  palpable 

Touchstone  of  truth  and  rightful  vengeance  too. 
Here  is  Clotaldo  taken. 

Soldiers. —  In  with  him! 

In  with  the  traitor!  [Clotaldo  brought  in. 

Segismund. —  Ay,  Clotaldo,  indeed — 

Himself — in  his  old  habit — his  old  self — 
What  I  back  again,  Clotaldo,  for  a  while 
To  swear  me  this  for  truth,  and  afterwards 
All  for  a  dreaming  lie? 

Clotaldo. —  Awake  or  dreaming, 

Down  with  that  sword,  and  down  these  traitors  theirs, 
Drawn  in  rebellion  'gainst  their  Sovereign. 

Segismund  [about  to  strike]. — Traitor!    Traitor  yourself! — 
But  soft— soft— soft ! — 
You  told  me,  not  so  very  long  ago. 
Awake  or  dreaming — I  forget — my  brain 
Is  not  so  clear  about  it — but  I  know 
One  test  you  gave  me  to  discern  between, 
Which  mad  and  dreaming  people  cannot  master; 
Or  if  the  dreamer  could,  so  best  secure 
A  comfortable  waking — Was't  not  so? — 
[To  Rosaura]   Needs  not  your  intercession  now,  you 

see. 
As  in  the  dream  before — 
Clotaldo,  rough  old  nurse  and  tutor  too 
That  only  traitor  wert,  to  me  if  true — 
Give  him  his  sword ;  set  him  on  a  fresh  horse ; 
Conduct  him  safely  through  my  rebel  force ; 
And  so  God  speed  him  to  his  sovereign's  side! 
Give  me  your  hand  ;  and  whether  all  awake 
Or  all  a-dreaming,  ride,  Clotaldo,  ride — 
Dream-swift — for  fear  we  dreams  should  overtake. 

[A  battle  may  be  supposed  to  take  place. 


264  CALDERON 

Scene  II. — A  wooded  pass  near  the  field  of  battle:  drums, 
trumpets,  and  firing.  Cries  of  "  God  save  Basiliol 
Segismund."    Enter  Fife,  running. 

Fife. — God  save  them  both,  and  save  them  all !  say  I ! — 

Oh — what  hot  work  ! — Whichever  way  one  turns 

The  whistling  bullet  at  one's  ears — I've  drifted 

Far  from  my  mad  young — master — whom  I  saw 

Tossing  upon  the  very  crest  of  battle. 

Beside  the  Prince — God  save  her  first  of  all ! 

With  all  my  heart  I  say  and  pray — and  so 

Commend  her  to  His  keeping — bang! — bang! — bang! — 

And  for  myself — scarce  worth  His  thinking  of — 

I'll  see  what  I  can  do  to  save  myself 

Behind  this  rock,  until  the  storm  blows  over. 

[Skirmishes,  shouts,  firing. 

Enter  King  Basilio,  Astolfo,  and  Clotaldo. 

King. — The  day  is  lost ! 

Astolfo. —  Do  not  despair — the  rebels — 

King. — Alas!    the  vanquished  only  are  the  rebels. 

Clotaldo. — Ev'n  if  this  battle  lost  us,  'tis  but  one 
Gain'd  on  their  side,  if  you  not  lost  in  it ; 
Another  moment  and  too  late :  at  once 
Take  horse,  and  to  the  capital,  my  liege, 
Where  in  some  safe  and  holy  sanctuary 
Save  Poland  in  your  person. 

Astolfo. —  Be  persuaded: 

You  know  your  son :  have  tasted  of  his  temper; 
At  his  first  onset  threatening  unprovoked 
The  crime  predicted  for  his  last  and  worst. 
How  whetted  now  with  such  a  taste  of  blood, 
And  thus  far  conquest! 

King. —  Ay,  and  how  he  fought  I 

Oh  how  he  fought,  Astolfo ;  ranks  of  men 
Falling  as  swathes  of  grass  before  the  mower ; 
I  could  but  pause  to  gaze  at  him,  although, 
Like  the  pale  horseman  of  the  Apocalypse, 
Each  moment  brought  him  nearer — Yet  I  say. 


LIFE  A  DREAM  26$ 

I  could  but  pause  and  gaze  on  him,  and  pray 
Poland  had  such  a  warrior  for  her  king. 

AsTOLFO. — The  cry  of  triumph  on  the  other  side 

Gains  ground  upon  us  here — there's  but  a  moment 
For  you,  my  liege,  to  do,  for  me  to  speak, 
Who  back  must  to  the  field,  and  what  man  may, 
Do,  to  retrieve  the  fortune  of  the  day.  [Firing. 

Fife  [falling  forward,  shot]. — Oh,  Lord,  have  mercy  on  me. 

King. —  What  a  shriek — 

Oh,  some  poor  creature  wounded  in  a  cause 
Perhaps  not  worth  the  loss  of  one  poor  life ! — 
So  young  too — and  no  soldier — 

Fife. —  A  poor  lad, 

Who  choosing  play  at  hide  and  seek  with  death, 
Just  hid  where  death  just  came  to  look  for  him; 
For  there's  no  place,  I  think,  can  keep  him  out. 
Once  he's  his  eye  upon  you.    All  grows  dark — 
You  glitter  finely  too — Well — we  are  dreaming — 
But  when  the  bullet's  off — Heav'n  save  the  mark  I 
So  tell  my  mister — mistress —  [Dies. 

King. — Oh  God !    How  this  poor  creature's  ignorance 
Confounds  our  so-call'd  wisdom !    Even  now 
When  death  has  stopt  his  lips,  the  wound  through  which 
His  soul  went  out,  still  with  its  bloody  tongue 
Preaching  how  vain  our  struggle  against  fate ! 
[Voices   ivithin]. — After    them!      After    them!      This 

way !    This  way ! 
The  day  is  ours — Down  with  Basilio. 

AsTOLFO. — Fly,  sir — 

King. —  And  slave-like  flying  not  out-ride 

The  fate  which  better  like  a  King  abide  I 

Enter  Segismund,  Rosaura,  Soldiers. 

Segismund. — Where  is  the  King? 

King  [prostrating  himself]. —  Behold  him— by  this  late 

Anticipation  of  resistless  fate. 

Thus  underneath  your  feet  his  golden  crown, 

And  the  white  head  that  wears  it,  laying  down. 

His  fond  resistance  hopes  to  expiate. 


266  CALDERON 

Segismund. — Princes  and  warriors  of  Poland — you 
That  stare  on  this  unnatural  sight  aghast, 
Listen  to  one  who,  Heav'n-inspired  to  do 
What  in  its  secret  wisdom  Heav'n  forecast. 
By  that  same  Heav'n  instructed  prophet-wise 
To  justify  the  present  in  the  past. 
What  in  the  sapphire  volume  of  the  skies 
Is  writ  by  God's  own  finger  misleads  none. 
But  him  whose  vain  and  misinstructed  eyes, 
They  mock  with  misinterpretation. 
Or  who,  mistaking  what  he  rightly  read, 
111  commentary  makes,  or  misapplies 
Thinking  to  shirk  or  thwart  it.    Which  has  done 
The  wisdom  of  this  venerable  head ; 
Who,  well  provided  with  the  secret  key 
To  that  gold  alphabet,  himself  made  me, 
Himself,  I  say,  the  savage  he  fore-read 
Fate  somehow    should  be  charged    with;  nipp'd    the 

growth 
Of  better  nature  in  constraint  and  sloth, 
That  only  bring  to  bear  the  seed  of  wrong. 
And  tum'd  the  stream  to  fury  whose  out-burst 
Had  kept  his  lawful  channel  uncoerced. 
And  fertilized  the  land  he  flow'd  along. 
Then  like  to  some  unskilful  duellist. 
Who  having  over-reach'd  himself  pushing  too  hard 
His  foe,  or  but  a  moment  off  his  guard — 
What  odds,  when  Fate  is  one's  antagonist ! — 
Nay,  more,  this  royal  father,  self-dismay'd 
At  having  Fate  against  himself  array'd, 
Upon  himself  the  very  sword  he  knew 
Should  wound  him,  down  upon  his  bosom  drew, 
That  might  well  handled,  well  have  wrought ;  or,  kept 
Undrawn,  have  harmless  in  the  scabbard  slept. 
But  Fate  shall  not  by  human  force  be  broke, 
Nor  foil'd  by  human  feint ;  the  Secret  learn'd 
Against  the  scholar  by  that  master  tum'd 
Who  to  himself  reserves  the  master-stroke. 
Witness  whereof  this  venerable  Age, 


LIFE   A   DREAM  267 

Thrice  crown'd  as  Sire,  and  Sovereign,  and  Sage, 

Down  to  the  very  dust  dishonor'd  by 

The  very  means  he  tempted  to  defy 

The  irresistible.    And  shall  not  I, 

Till  now  the  mere  dumb  instrument  that  wrought 

The  battle  Fate  has  with  my  father  fought, 

Now  the  mere  mouth-piece  of  its  victory — 

Oh,  shall  not  I,  the  champion's  sword  laid  down. 

Be  yet  more  shamed  to  wear  the  teacher's  gown, 

And,  blushing  at  the  part  I  had  to  play, 

Down  where  that  honor'd  head  I  was  to  lay 

By  this  more  just  submission  of  my  own, 

The  treason  Fate  has  forced  on  me  atone? 

King. — Oh,  Segismund,  in  whom  I  see  indeed. 
Out  of  the  ashes  of  my  self-extinction 
A  better  self  revive ;  if  not  beneath 
Your  feet,  beneath  your  better  wisdom  bow'd, 
The  Sovereignty  of  Poland  I  resign, 
With  this  its  golden  symbol ;  which  if  thus 
Saved  with  its  silver  head  inviolate, 
Shall  nevermore  be  subject  to  decline; 
But  when  the  head  that  it  alights  on  now 
Falls  honor'd  by  the  very  foe  that  must, 
As  all  things  mortal,  lay  it  in  the  dust. 
Shall  star-like  shift  to  his  successor's  brow. 
[Shouts  and  trumpets.    "  God  save  King  Segismund!" 

Segismund. —  For  what  remains — 

As  for  my  own,  so  for  my  people's  peace, 
Astolfo's  and  Estrella's  plighted  hands 
I  disunite,  and  taking  hers  to  mine, 
His  to  one  yet  more  dearly  his  resign. 

[Shouts:   "God  save  Estrclla,  Queen  of  Poland!" 

Segismund  [to  Clotaldo]. —  You 

That  with  unflinching  duty  to  your  King, 
Till  countermanded  by  the  mightier  Power, 
Have  held  your  Prince  a  captive  in  the  tower. 
Henceforth  as  strictly  guard  him  on  the  throne, 
No  less  my  people's  keeper  than  my  own. 
You  stare  upon  me  all,  amazed  to  hear 


268  CALDERON 

The  word  of  civil  justice  from  such  lips 
As  never  yet  seem'd  tuned  to  such  discourse. 
But  listen — In  that  same  enchanted  tower, 
Not  long  ago  I  learn 'd  it  from  a  dream 
Expounded  by  this  ancient  prophet  here ; 
And  which  he  told  me,  should  it  come  again, 
How  I  should  bear  myself  beneath  it ;  not 
As  then  with  angry  passion  all  on  fire, 
Arguing  and  making  a  distemper'd  soul ; 
But  ev'n  with  justice,  mercy,  self-control, 
As  if  the  dream  I  walk'd  in  were  no  dream. 
And  conscience  one  day  to  account  for  it. 
A  dream  it  was  in  which  I  thought  myself, 
And  you  that  hail'd  me  now  then  hail'd  me  King, 
In  a  brave  palace  that  was  all  my  own, 
Within,  and  all  without  it,  mine ;  until, 
Drunk  with  excess  of  majesty  and  pride, 
Methought  I  tower'd  so  high  and  swell'd  so  wide. 
That  of  myself  I  burst  the  glittering  bubble. 
That  my  ambition  had  about  me  blown, 
And  all  again  was  darkness.    Such  a  dream 
As  this  in  which  I  may  be  walking  now ; 
Dispensing  solemn  justice  to  you  shadows, 
Who  make  beheve  to  listen;  but  anon, 
With  all  your  glittering  arms  and  equipage, 
King,  princes,  captains,  warriors,  plume  and  steel. 
Ay,  ev'n  with  all  your  airy  theatre. 
May  flit  into  the  air  you  seem  to  rend 
With  acclamation,  leaving  me  to  wake 
In  the  dark  tower;  or  dreaming  that  I  wake 
From  this  that  waking  is ;  or  this  and  that 
Both  waking  or  both  dreaming ;  such  a  doubt 
Confounds  and  clouds  our  mortal  life  about. 
And,  whether  wake  or  dreaming ;  this  I  know, 
How  dream- wise  human  glories  come  and  go ; 
Whose  momentary  tenure  not  to  break, 
Walking  as  one  who  knows  he  soon  may  wake 
So  fairly  carry  the  full  cup,  so  well 
Disorder'd  insolence  and  passion  quell, 


LIFE  A  DREAM 


269 


That  there  be  nothing  after  to  upbraid 

Dreamer  or  doer  in  the  part  he  play'd, 

Whether  To-morrow's  dawn  shall  break  the  spell. 

Or  the  Last  Trumpet  of  the  eternal  Day, 

.When  Dreaming  with  the  Night  shall  pass  away. 

[Exeunt. 


THE    MISANTHROPE 


BY 


EAN-BAPTISTE    POQUELIN    MOLIERE 

[Translated  by  Charles  Heron  Wall] 


DRAMATIS  PERSONS 

Alceste,  in  love  with  Celimene. 

Philinte,  friend  to  Alceste. 

Oronte,  in  love  with  Celimene. 

ACASTE,         )   ,, 

_  >  Marquises. 

Clitandre,  ) 

Celimene,  beloved  by  Alceste. 

Eliante,  cousin  to  Celimene. 

Arsinoe,  friend  to  Celimene. 

Basque,  servant  to  Celimene. 

Dubois,  servant  to  Alceste. 

An  Officer  of  the  Marechaussee  of  France. 

The  scene  is  at  Paris  in  Celimene's  house. 


if] 


THE  MISANTHROPE 
ACT  FIRST 

Scene  I. 

Philinte,  Ale  est  e 

Philinte,  What  is  it?     What  can  be  the  matter  with  you? 

Alceste  [seated^.  Out  of  my  sight! 

Philinte.  But  still,  tell  me  what  new  whim     .     .     . 

Alceste.  Leave  me,  I  tell  you,  and  go  and  hide  yourself. 

Philinte.  But  you  might,  at  any  rate,  listen  to  me  without 
getting  angry. 

Alceste.  I  will  be  angry,  and  I  will  not  listen. 

Philinte.  I  hardly  understand  you,  Alceste,  in  your  sudden 
outburst  of  spleen ;  and  although  we  are  friends,  I  am 
one  of  the  first     .     .     . 

Alceste  [rising  abruptly].  I,  your  friend!  No:  strike  my 
name  from  off  your  list,  if  you  please;  I  have  certainly, 
till  now,  professed  to  be  so,  but  after  what  I  have  just 
discovered  in  you,  I  tell  you  plainly  that  I  am  your  friend 
no  longer.    I  have  no  wish  for  a  place  in  corrupt  hearts. 

Philinte.  I  am  very  guilty,  it  seems,  Alceste. 

Alceste.  Guilty !  you  ought  to  die  of  mere  shame.  There  is 
no  possible  excuse  for  such  an  action,  and  every  man  of 
honor  would  set  his  face  against  it.  I  find  you  over- 
whelming a  man  with  caresses  and  professing  for  him 
the  utmost  tenderness.  I  find  you  adding  to  the  trans- 
port of  your  embraces  protestations,  offers,  vows  of  de- 
votion, yet  when  afterwards  I  ask  you  who  the  man  is,  you 
can  hardly  tell  me  his  name ;  your  love  for  him  vanishes 
the  moment  you  leave  him,  and  you  speak  of  him  as  of 
a  person  entirely  indifferent  to  you.  'Sdeath !  it  is  an  un- 
worthy, cowardly,  base  thing  to  demean  one's  self  so  far 

273 


274 


MOLIERE 


as  to  belie  one's  own  feelings;  and  if  I  had  been  unfort- 
unate enough  to  have  done  such  a  thing,  1  would,  out  of 
sheer  grief,  go  at  once  and  hang  myself. 

Philinte.  I  really  do  not  see  that  this  is  a  case  of  hanging, 
and  I  most  humbly  beg  you  will  allow  me  to  mitigate  a 
little  the  severity  of  your  sentence,  so  that  I  need  not  go 
and  hang  myself  for  this  matter,  if  you  please. 

Alceste.  How  unseemly  this  jesting  of  yours! 

Philinte.  But,  seriously,  what  would  you  have  me  do? 

Alceste.  I  would  have  you  be  sincere;  and,  like  a  man  of 
honor,  never  speak  a  word  that  does  not  come  from  the 
heart. 

Philinte.  When  a  man  comes  joyfully  to  embrace  you,  it  is 
but  right  to  pay  him  back  in  his  own  coin,  respond,  as 
well  as  you  can,  to  his  ardor,  and  return  him  offer  for  offer 
and  promise  for  promise. 

Alceste.  No,  I  cannot  endure  this  contemptible  custom  af- 
fected by  most  of  you  men  of  fashion,  and  there  is  nothing 
I  hate  so  much  as  the  grimaces  of  all  those  great  protes- 
tation-mongers, those  obsequious  dealers  of  unmeaning 
embraces,  those  obliging  utterers  of  empty  words,  who 
vie  with  each  other  in  civilities,  and  treat  in  the  same  man- 
ner the  honorable  man  and  the  vain  fool.  What  advan- 
tage do  you  find  in  being  the  object  of  the  endearments 
of  a  man  who  makes  vows  to  you  of  friendship,  faith, 
zeal,  esteem,  tenderness :  who  crushes  you  with  promises ; 
who  bestows  on  you  a  brilliant  encomium ;  when  he  rushes 
to  do  the  same  to  the  first  snob  he  meets?  No,  no  one 
who  respects  himself  would  care  for  esteem  so  debased ; 
and  even  that  which  we  most  prize  has  little  value  if  it 
includes  the  whole  human  race.  Friendship  should  be 
based  on  esteem,  but  to  esteem  everybody  is  to  esteem 
nobody.  Since  you  yield  to  these  vices  of  the  age,  'sdeath ! 
I  will  have  nothing  to  do  with  you.  I  utterly  reject  the  con- 
descending affability  which  makes  no  distinctions  of  merit. 
I  wish  to  be  loved  for  myself;  and,  to  cut  the  matter 
short,  the  friend  of  all  mankind  is  no  friend  of  mine. 

Philinte.  But  while  we  are  in  the  world,  we  must  pay  a  few 
outward  civilities  which  custom  demands. 

Alceste.  No,  I  tell  you;    we  should  pitilessly  condemn  this 


THE   MISANTHROPE  275 

shameful  display  of  hollow  friendships.  I  would  have 
everyone  acquit  himself  like  a  man ;  under  every  circum- 
stance speak  his  mind  freely,  and  never  allow  his  real 
feelings  to  disguise  themselves  under  vain  compliments. 

pHiLiNTE.  There  are  many  cases  when  unreserved  frankness 
would  be  both  ridiculous  and  objectionable ;  and  some- 
times— no  offence  to  your  austere  honor — it  is  right  to 
conceal  the  thoughts  we  have.  Would  it  be  proper  and 
befitting  to  tell  a  hundred  people  about  us,  what  we  think 
of  them?  And  when  we  have  to  do  with  a  man  we  hate, 
or  who  displeases  us,  ought  we  to  go  and  tell  him  the 
plain  facts  of  the  case  ? 

Alceste.  Yes. 

Philinte.  What!  you  would  tell  that  ancient  dame,  Emilia, 
that  at  her  age  it  is  not  becoming  to  set  up  for  a  beauty, 
and  that  the  paint  she  lays  on,  shocks  everybody? 

Alceste.  Certainly. 

Philinte.  You  would  tell  Dorilas  that  he  is  too  importunate, 
and  that  everyone  at  Court  is  tired  of  hearing  him  relate 
his  own  deeds  of  bravery,  and  speak  of  the  greatness  of 
his  house? 

Alceste.  Decidedly. 

Philinte.  You  are  joking. 

Alceste.  I  am  not ;  and  on  this  point  I  will  spare  no  one. 
My  eyes  are  too  much  offended,  and,  whether  at  Court 
or  in  town,  I  find  only  objects  to  provoke  my  wrath.  To 
see  men  behave  as  they  do  makes  me  a  prey  to  melan- 
choly and  deep  grief.  I  find  everywhere  nothing  but  base 
flattery,  injustice,  self-interest,  treachery,  and  deceit.  I 
can  bear  it  no  longer,  and  my  intention  is  to  break  with 
all  mankind. 

Philinte.  This  philosophical  moroseness  is  somewhat  too 
fierce.  Pray  excuse  me,  if  I  laugh  to  see  you  in  these 
gloomy  fits,  and  I  can  fancy  I  see  in  us  two,  brought  up 
under  the  same  care,  those  brothers  which  "  The  School 
for  Husbands  "  describes,  and  of  whom     .     .     . 

Alceste.  Good  heavens !   spare  me  your  insipid  comparisons. 

Philinte.  Come,  seriously,  cease  to  give  way  to  these  vaga- 
ries, for  all  the  trouble  you  may  take  will  not  alter  the 
world.     Since  plain  speaking  has  such  charms  for  you, 


276  MOLIERE 

I  will  tell  you  frankly  that  wherever  you  go,  people  laugh 
at  this  morbid  temper  of  yours;  that  so  much  anger 
against  the  customs  of  the  times  makes  you  ridiculous 
in  the  eyes  of  a  great  many, 

Alceste.  So  much  the  better,  I  say,  so  much  the  better;  it 
is  all  I  ask  for,  it  is  a  very  good  sign  in  my  favor,  and  I 
rejoice  at  it.  Men  are  all  alike,  so  odious  to  me,  that  I 
should  be  very  sorry  for  their  good  opinion. 

Philinte.  You  are  greatly  incensed  against  human  nature! 

Alceste.  Yes,  I  have  conceived  for  it  an  intense  hatred. 

Philinte.  Will  all  poor  mortals,  without  exception,  be  in- 
cluded in  this  great  hatred?  There  are  surely  some  in 
our  days     .     .     . 

Alceste.  No,  there  are  no  exceptions,  and  I  hate  all  men 
alike.  Some,  because  they  are  wicked  and  mischievous; 
others,  because  they  are  lenient  towards  the  wicked,  and 
do  not  bear  to  them  that  deep  contempt  which  vice  ought 
to  inspire  in  honest  hearts.  You  can  see  to  what  an  un- 
just excess  this  toleration  is  carried  in  the  case  with  that 
downright  villain,  against  whom  I  have  a  lawsuit.  Every- 
body can  see  through  the  mask  of  the  treacherous  rascal ; 
he  is  known  everywhere  for  what  he  is ;  and  his  soft 
looks  and  honeyed  words  only  deceive  those  to  whom  he 
is  a  stranger.  Everyone  knows  that  this  abject  scoundrel, 
who  deserves  to  be  exposed,  has  pushed  his  way  in  the 
world  through  mean  and  dirty  jobs;  and  that  the  lofty 
position  to  which  these  have  brought  him,  makes  merit 
repine  and  virtue  blush.  Whatever  shameful  epithets  you 
may  apply  to  him,  there  is  no  one  to  take  up  the  defence 
of  his  wretched  honor;  call  him  infamous  cheat,  and 
cursed  villain :  everyone  agrees  to  it,  and  nobody  contra- 
dicts you ;  yet  his  face  is  everywhere  welcome ;  he  is 
received  and  entertained  everywhere;  people  smile  upon 
him ;  he  worms  himself  into  every  society ;  and  if  by 
canvassing  there  is  any  preferment  to  be  competed  for, 
you  will  see  him  carry  it  off  over  the  heads  of  the  most 
honest.  'Sdeath !  this  tampering  with  vice  kills  me,  and 
I  am  seized  at  times  with  a  terrible  longing  to  fly  away 
into  some  desert,  far  from  the  approach  of  men. 

Philinte.  Alas !  let  us  trouble  ourselves  less  about  the  man- 


THE   MISANTHROPE  177 

ners  of  the  age,  and  have  a  little  indulgence  for  human 
nature.  Let  us  not  examine  it  with  such  severity ;  but 
look  with  more  forbearance  upon  its  defects.  The  world 
requires  a  more  pliant  virtue,  and  we  may  err  through 
too  much  zeal.  A  sound  judgment  avoids  all  extremes, 
and  bids  us  be  wise  with  moderation.  The  unbending 
severity  of  the  virtues  of  olden  times  clashes  too  much 
with  the  customs  and  manners  of  our  age.  It  requires 
too  much  perfection  in  mortals ;  we  should  yield  to  the 
times  without  obstinacy,  and  it  is  the  greatest  of  follies 
to  wish  to  reform  all  mankind.  I,  like  you,  notice  every 
day  a  hundred  things  which  would  be  better  if  ordered 
otherwise.  But  whatever  I  may  discover  at  each  step, 
men  do  not  see  me  breaking  forth  into  anger  as  you  do; 
I  take  them  quietly  as  they  are,  I  accustom  myself  to 
bear  with  what  they  do,  and  I  believe  that,  whether  at 
Court  or  in  the  city,  my  placidity  is  as  philosophical  as 
your  wrath. 

Alceste.  But  this  placidity,  sir — you  who  reason  so  well — 
will  nothing  ruffle  this  same  placidity?  If,  perchance,  a 
friend  should  betray  you ;  if,  in  order  to  get  your  prop- 
erty, a  trap  were  laid,  or  injurious  reports  spread  about; 
would  you  see  all  this  without  indignation? 

Philinte.  Yes,  I  look  upon  those  defects  so  offensive  to  yout 
mind  as  vices  inherent  in  human  nature,  and  my  mind  is 
no  more  shocked  at  seeing  a  man  dishonest,  unjust,  and 
selfish,  than  at  seeing  vultures  ravenous  after  carnagv, 
monkeys  mischievous,  and  wolves  greedy  of  blood. 

Alceste.  What !  Shall  I  see  myself  deceived,  slandered, 
robbed,  without  being  .  .  .  'Sdeath !  I  will  not  speak 
to  you  at  all,  when  your  reasoning  is  so  full  of  folly. 

Philinte.  You  would  indeed  do  well  to  keep  silence.  Rail 
a  little  less  against  your  adversary,  and  bestow  more  care 
on  your  lawsuit. 

Alceste.  I  will  bestow  none  upon  it ;  of  that  I  am  determined. 

Philinte.  But  whom  can  you  expect  to  plead  for  you? 

Alceste.  Whom?    Reason,  my  just  right,  equity. 

Philinte.  Will  you  not  see  any  of  the  judges? 

Alceste.  Why  should  I?     Is  my  cause  unjust  or  doubtful? 

Philinte.  I  agree  with  you  that  it  is  not;  but  the  league 
against  you  is  serious  and     .     .     . 


278  MOLIERE 

Alceste.  I  am  resolved  not  to  move  a  step  in  the  matter. 
Either  I  am  right  or  I  am  wrong. 

Philinte.  Do  not  be  over-confident. 

Alceste.  I  will  not  stir. 

Philinte.  Your  adversary  is  powerful,  and  may  by  his  in- 
trigues persuade     .     .     . 

Alceste.  I  care  not. 

Philinte.  You  will  do  wrong. 

Alceste.  Be  it  so.    We  shall  see  what  comes  of  it. 

Philinte.  But     .     .     . 

Alceste.  I  shall  have  the  pleasure  of  losing  my  lawsuit. 

Philinte.  But  still     .     .     . 

Alceste.  I  shall  see  in  this  trial  whether  men  will  have  im- 
pudence enough — will  be  wicked,  villainous,  and  perverse 
enough — to  do  me  this  injustice  in  the  face  of  the  whole 
world. 

Philinte.  What  a  man ! 

Alceste.  I  would  give  up  a  great  deal  to  have  the  pleasure  of 
losing  my  suit. 

Philinte.  If  people  heard  you  speak  in  that  way,  they  would 
laugh  at  you  in  good  earnest,  Alceste. 

Alceste.  So  much  the  worse  for  those  who  laughed. 

Philinte.  But  this  rectitude  which  you  claim  so  loudly ;  this 
thorough-going  integrity,  in  which  you  entrench  yourself, 
do  you  find  them  in  her  you  love?  Being,  as  it  seems,  so 
much  at  variance  with  the  whole  human  race,  I  am  greatly 
astonished  that,  in  spite  of  all  that  can  render  it  odious, 
you  have  chosen  in  it  what  charms  your  eyes.  What  sur- 
prises me  still  more,  is  the  strange  choice  which  your 
heart  has  made.  The  sincere  Eliante  is  kindly  disposed 
towards  you,  the  prude  Arsinoe  casts  longing  eyes  upon 
you ;  yet  you  reject  their  vows,  and  suffer  yourself  to 
be  led  in  chains  by  Celimene,  whose  coquettish  disposi- 
tion and  malicious  wit  are  so  much  in  accordance  with 
the  manners  of  our  age !  How  is  it  that,  bearing  such 
deep  hatred  to  these  manners,  you  can  put  up  with  them 
in  the  person  you  love?  In  so  sweet  a  charmer  are  they 
no  longer  failings?  Are  you  blind  to  them,  or  do  you 
excuse  them? 

Alceste.  No.    My  love  for  this  young  widow  does  not  make 


THE   MISANTHROPE  279 

me  blind  to  her  faults;  and  however  great  may  be  the 
passion  I  have  for  her,  I  am  the  first  to  see  them  and  to 
blame  them.  I  confess  my  weakness,  for,  in  spite  of 
myself,  she  has  the  art  of  pleasing  me.  It  is  in  vain  that 
I  see  her  defects,  and  in  vain  that  I  blame  her  for  them : 
I  love  her  in  spite  of  all  her  imperfections ;  her  charms 
prove  stronger  than  I.  But  that  my  sincere  love  will 
purify  her  heart  of  all  the  vices  of  the  times,  I  have  no 
doubt. 

Philinte.  If  you  succeed  in  that,  you  will  do  no  small  thing. 
So  you  really  believe  that  she  loves  you? 

Alceste.  Indeed  I  do!  I  should  not  love  her  if  I  did  not 
think  so. 

Philinte.  But  if  you  are  so  sure  of  her  love,  why  do  your 
rivals  cause  you  such  uneasiness? 

Alceste.  It  is  because  a  heart  deeply  in  love  claims  all  for 
itself.  I  am  here  to-day  simply  with  the  object  of  telling 
her  what  my  feelings  are  on  this  point. 

Philinte.  As  far  as  I  am  concerned,  it  is  her  cousin  Eliante 
I  would  love.  Her  heart,  which  holds  you  in  great  esteem, 
is  truthful  and  sincere,  and  you  would  have  made  in  her 
a  much  wiser  choice. 

Alceste.  It  is  true ;  my  reason  tells  me  so  every  day,  but  rea- 
son does  not  rule  love. 

Philinte.  I  have  great  misgivings  about  your  passion,  and 
your  hope  might     .     .     . 


Scene  11. 

Oronte,  4lceste,  Philinte 

Oronte  [to  Alceste].  J  learnt  just  now  that  Eliante  and 
Celimene  are  gone  out  to  make  some  purchases ;  but,  as 
I  was  told  that  you  were  here,  I  came  up  to  say,  in  all 
sincerity  of  heart,  that  I  have  conceived  for  you  an  in- 
credible esteem ;  and  that,  for  a  long  time,  this  esteem 
has  given  me  an  ardent  desire  to  be  numbered  among 
your  friends.  Yes,  I  love  to  render  justice  to  true  merit, 
and  I  long  to  be  united  to  you  in  the  close  bond  of  friend- 
ship. I  think  that  a  warm  friend,  and  one  of  my  stand- 
Classics.    Vol.  3f — M 


a8o  MOLIERE 

ing,  is  assuredly  not  to  be  despised.  [During  this  dis- 
course of  Oronte,  Alceste  is  thoughtful,  and  does  not  seem 
aware  that  he  is  spoken  to,  until  Oronte  says  to  him: 
With  your  leave,  it  is  to  you  that  I  am  speaking. 

Alceste.  To  me,  sir? 

Oronte.  To  you.    Does  it  in  any  way  wound  your  feelings? 

Alceste.  Not  in  the  least;  but  my  surprise  is  great.  I  did 
not  expect  this  homage  to  be  paid  to  me. 

Oronte.  The  esteem  I  feel  for  you  ought  not  to  surprise  you, 
and  you  can  claim  it  from  the  whole  world     .     ,     . 

Alceste.  Sir     .     .     . 

Oronte.  The  whole  kingdom  contains  no  merit  more  dazzling 
than  that  which  is  to  be  found  in  you. 

Alceste.  Sir    .     .    . 

Oronte.  Yes,  I  consider  you  superior  to  the  highest  amongst 
us. 

Alceste.  Sir    .     .    . 

Oronte.  May  Heaven  strike  me  dead  if  I  lie!  And  in  order 
to  convince  you  of  my  feelings,  allow  me,  in  this  place, 
to  embrace  you  with  all  my  heart,  and  to  solicit  a  place 
in  your  affections.  Come,  your  hand,  if  you  please.  Will 
you  promise  me  your  friendship? 

Alceste.  Sir    .     .     . 

Oronte.  What!   you  refuse  me? 

Alceste.  Sir,  it  is  too  great  an  honor  you  wish  to  pay  me; 
but  friendship  requires  a  little  more  caution,  and  we  surely 
profane  its  name  when  we  lightly  make  use  of  it.  Such 
a  compact  ought  to  spring  from  judgment  and  choice, 
and  before  we  bind  ourselves  we  ought  to  be  better  ac- 
quainted. Our  dispositions  might  differ  so  greatly  as  to 
make  us  both  heartily  repent  of  the  bargain. 

Oronte.  Upon  my  word,  you  speak  like  a  sensible  man,  and 
I  esteem  you  all  the  more  for  it.  Let  us  then  leave  the 
forming  of  such  pleasant  ties  to  time ;  but  meanwhile 
believe  that  I  am  entirely  at  your  service.  If  some  over- 
ture is  to  be  made  for  you  at  Court,  everyone  knows  ^hat 
I  am  in  favor  with  the  king,  that  I  have  his  private  ear, 
and  that  really  he  behaves  in  all  things  most  kindly  to 
me.  In  short,  believe  that  I  am  in  everything  and  at  all 
times  at  your  disposal.    As  you  are  a  man  of  great  judg- 


THE   MISANTHROPE  281 

ment,  I  come,  by  way  of  beginning  this  happy  bond  of 
friendship,  to  read  you  a  sonnet  which  I  have  lately  com- 
posed and  to  ask  you  if  I  should  do  well  to  publish  it. 

Alceste.  Sir,  I  am  ill  qualified  to  decide  on  such  a  matter; 
pray  excuse  me. 

Oronte.  Why? 

Alceste.  I  have  the  weakness  of  being  a  little  too  sincere  about 
those  things. 

Oronte.  Sincerity  is  what  I  ask  of  you ;  and  I  should  have 
reason  to  complain  if,  when  I  come  to  you  in  order  to  hear 
the  plain  truth,  you  frustrate  my  purpose  by  concealing 
anything  from  me. 

Alceste.  If  it  is  thus  you  look  upon  it,  sir,  I  consent. 

Oronte.  Sonnet.  It  is  a  sonnet.  .  .  .  Hope.  .  .  .  It  is 
a  lady  who  had  given  some  encouragement  to  my  love. 
Hope.  .  .  .  These  are  not  those  long,  pompous  verses ; 
but  soft,  tender,  languishing  little  lines.  [At  every  one 
of  these  interruptions  he  looks  at  Alceste. 

Alceste.  We  shall  see. 

Oronte.  Hope.  ...  I  do  not  know  whether  the  style  will 
seem  clear  and  easy  to  you,  and  whether  you  will  be  sat- 
isfied with  my  choice  of  words. 

Alceste.  We  shall  see,  sir. 

Oronte.  Besides,  you  must  know  that  I  was  only  a  quarter 
of  an  hour  composing  it. 

Alceste.  Come,  sir,  time  has  nothing  to  do  with  the  matter. 

Oronte  [reads]. — 

Hope,  it  is  true,  can  ease  our  pain* 

And  rock  awhile  our  hapless  mind. 
But,  Phyllis,  what  a  sorry  gain 

When  nothing  pleasant  walks  behind. 

Puilinte.  I  think  this  beginning  charming! 

Alcbste  [aside  to  Philinte].  What!  you  dare  to  find  that 
charming? 

Oronte.      Your  complaisance  was  great  indeed. 
But  better  'twere  to  clip  its  scope, 
And  not  to  such  expense  proceed, 
If  you  could  give  me — only  hope. 

Philinte.  Ah !  in  what  charming  terms  those  things  are  said! 

•  The  sonnet  is  thought  to  have  been   written  by  Benserade. 


282  MOLIERE 

Alceste  [aside  to  Philinte].  Shame  on  you,  you  vile  flatterer  1 
you  praise  that  rubbish  ? 

Oronte.       If  age — long  expectation's  pest — 
The  ardor  of  my  zeal  must  test, 

To  death  at  last  I'll  fly. 
My  purpose  braves  your  ev'ry  care ; 
Fair  Phyllis,  men  will  soon  despair 
When  doomed  to  hope  for  aye. 

Philinte.  The  fall  is  pretty,  lovable,  admirable. 

Alceste  [aside  to  Philinte].  Plague  take  your  fall,  wretched 
sycophant !  Deuce  take  you  I  I  wish  it  had  broken  your 
neck. 

Philinte.  I  have  never  heard  verses  so  skilfully  turned. 

Alceste  [aside].  Zounds! 

Oronte  [to  Philinte].  You  are  flattering  me,  and  you  think 
perhaps     .     .     . 

Philinte.  No,  indeed^  I  am  not  flattering  you  at  all. 

Alceste  [aside].  Ha!    what  else  are  you  doing,  impostor? 

Oronte  [to  Alceste].  But  you,  you  remember  the  agreement 
we  made,  and  I  beg  of  you  to  speak  to  me  in  all  sin- 
cerity. 

Alceste.  Sir,  this  is  at  all  times  a  delicate  matter,  and  we 
always  like  people  to  praise  us  for  our  genius.  But  one 
day  I  was  saying  to  someone,  whose  name  I  will  not 
mention,  on  seeing  verses  of  his  composition,  that  a  gen- 
tleman should  carefully  guard  against  the  hankering  after 
authorship  which  is  apt  to  seize  us ;  that  he  should  check 
the  great  propensity  we  have  of  making  a  display  of  such 
pastimes;  and  that  by  too  great  an  eagerness  to  show 
our  productions  we  run  the  risk  of  making  ourselves 
ridiculous. 

Oronte.  Do  you  mean  me  to  understand  by  this  that  I  am 
wrong  in  wishing     .     .     . 

Alceste.  I  do  not  say  that.  But  I  said  to  him  that  a  lifeless 
composition  is  very  wearisome  to  those  who  read  it ;  that 
such  a  weakness  is  sufficient  to  make  a  man  the  object  of 
unkind  remarks:  that,  although  in  other  respects  he  may 
have  the  most  sterling  qualities,  we  generally  judge  of 
men  by  their  weakest  side. 

Oronte.  Do  you  find  fault  with  my  sonnet? 


THE   MISANTHROPE  283 

Alceste.  I  do  not  say  that.  But  to  keep  him  from  writing, 
I  pointed  out  to  him  how  in  our  days  that  thirst  had  spoilt 
many  a  worthy  man. 

Oronte.  Do  I  write  badly,  and  do  I  resemble  in  any  way    .    .    . 

Alceste.  I  do  not  say  that.  But,  in  short,  I  said  to  him,  what 
pressing  necessity  is  there  for  you  to  rhyme,  and  what 
the  deuce  urges  you  to  put  your  name  in  print?  If  we 
can  forgive  the  publication  of  a  wretched  book,  it  is  only 
to  those  unfortunate  men  who  scribble  for  a  living.  Be- 
lieve me ;  resist  the  temptation,  keep  such  effusions  from 
public  notice,  and  do  not  throw  away,  however  you  may 
be  tempted,  the  name  of  a  man  of  sense  and  a  gentleman 
which  you  bear  at  Court,  to  take  from  the  hands  of  a 
grasping  printer,  that  of  a  ridiculous  and  wretched  au- 
thor.   This  is  what  I  tried  to  make  him  understand. 

Oronte.  And  I  think  I  understand  you.  But  this  is  all  very 
well.    May  I  know  what  in  my  sonnet  can     .     .     . 

Alceste.  Truly,  you  had  better  shut  it  up  in  your  cabinet ; 
you  have  followed  bad  models,  and  your  expressions  are 
in  no  way  natural.  Pray  what  is:  And  rock  aivhile  our 
hapless  mind?  and.  Nothing  pleasant  walks  behind?  also, 
And  not  to  such  expense  proceed,  if  you  could  give  me 
only  hope?  or,  Fair  Phyllis,  men  will  soon  despair,  when 
doomed  to  hope  for  aye?  This  figurative  style  that  people 
are  so  vain  of,  falls  far  short  of  good  taste  and  truth.  It 
is  a  paltry  play  on  words,  and  mere  affectation.  Nature 
never  speaks  thus.  I  hate  the  wretched  taste  of  the  age 
in  these  matters.  Our  forefathers,  unpolished  as  they 
were,  understood  these  things  better:  and  I  value  less  all 
that  is  now  admired,  than  an  old  song  which  I  will  re- 
peat to  you : 

If  the  king  had  given  me 

Paris  town,  so  great  and  gay, 
And  for  it  I  had  to  flee 

From  my  lady-love  away. 
To  King  Henry  I  should  say. 

Take  your  Paris  back,  I  pray; 
I  had  liefer  love  my  love,  O 
I  had  liefer  love  my  love. 
The  versification  is  not  rich,  and  the  style  is  old.    But  do 


a84  MOLIERE 

you  not  see  how  much  better  it  is  than  all  that  trumpery 
which  good  sense  must  abhor,  and  that  here  simple  nat- 
ure speaks? 

[Repeats  verse. 
This  is  what  a  heart  truly  in  love  would  say.  [To  Phi- 
linte,  who  laughs.]  Yes,  you  may  laugh  as  much  as  you 
please,  but  whatever  you  men  of  wit  may  say,  I  prefer 
this  to  the  showy  glitter  of  those  false  trinkets  which 
everyone  admires. 

Oronte.  And  yet  I  maintain  that  my  verses  are  good. 

Alceste.  You  have  your  own  reasons  for  thinking  them  so; 
but  you  will  allow  me  to  be  of  a  different  opinion,  and  my 
reasons  to  be  independent  of  yours. 

Oronte.  I  think  it  sufficient  that  others  prize  them. 

Alceste.  No  doubt  they  have  the  gift  of  dissimulation  which 
I  have  not. 

Oronte.  Do  you  really  think  that  you  have  such  a  large  share 
of  intelligence? 

Alceste.  If  I  praised  your  verses,  I  should  have  more. 

Oronte.  I  can  easily  do  without  your  approbation. 

Alceste.  You  must  certainly,  if  you  please,  do  without  it. 

Oronte.  I  should  like  to  see  how  you  would  set  about  com- 
posing some  on  the  same  subject. 

Alceste.  I  might  have  the  misfortune  of  making  some  as  bad 
as  yours,  but  I  should  take  great  care  not  to  show  them 
to  anyone. 

Oronte.  You  speak  to  me  very  haughtily,  and  this  con- 
ceit    .     .     . 

Alceste.  Pray  find  others  to  flatter  you,  and  do  not  ask  me 
to  do  so. 

Oronte.  But,  my  little  sir,  lower  somewhat  your  lofty  tone, 
if  you  please. 

Alceste.  I  shall  certainly,  my  big  sir,  do  as  I  choose. 

Philinte  [stepping  betiveen  them].  Nay,  gentlemen,  this  is 
carrying  the  matter  too  far.    I  beg  of  you  to  cease. 

Oronte.  Ah !  I  am  wrong,  I  acknowledge  it,  and  I  leave  the 
field  to  you.    I  am,  sir,  in  all  sincerity,  your  humble  servant. 

Alceste.  And  I,  sir,  your  most  obedient. 


THE   MISANTHROPE  185 

Scene  III. 

Philinte,  Ale  est  e 

Philinte.  There!  you  see  that,  with  your  love  of  sincerity, 
you  have  drawn  a  troublesome  affair  upon  yourself.  It 
was  clear  to  me  that  Oronte,  in  order  to  be  flattered    .    .    . 

Alceste.  Do  not  speak  to  me. 

Philinte.  But    .     .     . 

Alceste.  No  more  society  for  me. 

Philinte.  It  is  too  much    .     .    «  - 

Alceste.  Leave  me  alone. 

Philinte.  If  I     .     .     . 

Alceste.  Not  another  word. 

Philinte.  But  how     .     .     . 

Alceste.  I  will  hear  no  more. 

Philinte.  But  yet     .     .     . 

Alceste.  Again?   what,  again? 

Philinte.  You  insult    .     .     . 

Alceste.  'Sdeath !  this  is  too  much.    Do  not  follow  me. 

Philinte.  You  are  joking;  I  shall  not  leave  you. 


ACT   SECOND 

Scene  I. 

Aleeste,  Celim^ne 

Alceste.  Madam,  shall  I  be  plain  with  you?  I  am  far  from 
being  satisfied  with  your  behavior;  I  feel  very  indignant 
with  you  because  of  it,  and  I  am  afraid  that  we  shall  have 
to  part.  Yes,  it  would  be  deceiving  you,  were  I  to  speak 
otherwise ;  sooner  or  later  a  rupture  will  be  unavoidable, 
and  if  I  promised  you  the  contrary  a  thousand  times,  it 
would  not  be  in  my  power  to  prevent  it. 

Celimene.  Oh!  I  see  that  it  was  in  order  to  abuse  me  you 
wished  to  take  me  home? 

Alceste.  I  do  not  abuse  you.    But  you  welcome  too  readily 


286  MOLIERE 

the  first  new-comer;  you  allow  too  many  lovers  to  beset 
you,  and  my  heart  sees  it  with  pain. 

Celimene.  Do  you  blame  me  because  others  love  me?  Can  I 
help  being  thought  amiable?  And  when  people  come  to 
see  me  and  try  1,0  be  pleasant,  am  I  to  take  a  stick  to  drive 
them  away? 

Alceste.  No,  madam,  it  is  not  a  stick  you  want,  but  a  heart 
less  ready  to  listen  to  their  love-tales.  I  know  that  your 
beauty  accompanies  you  wherever  you  go ;  but  your  wel- 
come keeps  near  you  those  your  eyes  have  attracted ;  and 
the  tender-heartedness  you  show  to  those  you  have  con- 
quered completes  in  every  case  the  work  begun  by  your 
charms.  The  too  pleasant  hope  you  give  to  your  admir- 
ers increases  their  assiduities  towards  you,  whereas  a  lit- 
tle reticence  in  your  favors  would  soon  drive  the  whole 
crowd  away.  At  least,  madam,  tell  me  by  what  good 
fortune  your  Clitandre  has  the  happiness  of  pleasing  you 
so  much.  Upon  what  fund  of  merit  and  sublime  virtue 
do  you  ground  the  honor  of  your  esteem  for  him?  Is  it 
by  the  long  nail  *  on  his  little  finger  that  he  has  won  your 
aflFectionate  regard?  Are  you  fascinated,  along  with  the 
whole  fashionable  world,  by  the  dazzling  merit  of  his  fair 
periwig?  Is  it  to  his  large  canions  he  owes  your  love  for 
him?  His  great  collection  of  ribbons  have,  perhaps,  the 
power  of  charming  you?  Is  it  by  the  attraction  of  his 
large  rhmgrave  f  that  he  has  gamed  your  heart  while 
callmg  himself  your  slave?  Perhaps  it  is  his  way  of 
laughmg,  or  his  falsetto  voice,  which  has  found  out  the 
secret  of  touching  your  heart? 

Celimene.  How  unjustly  you  take  umbrage  at  him.  Do  you 
not  know  why  I  humor  him,  and  that  he  has  promised  to 
interest  all  his  friends  in  your  lawsuit? 

Alceste.  Eh !  madam,  lose  my  lawsuit  with  good  courage, 
and  do  not  encourage  a  rival  who  is  hateful  to  me. 

Celimene.  But  you  are  becoming  jealous  of  everybody. 

Alceste.  Because  everybody  is  kindly  received  by  you. 

Celimene.  To  see  in  me  the  same  good-will  for  all,  is  the  very 
thing  which  should  calm  your  fearful  spirit.    You  would 

•  A  fashion  of  the  time, 

t  Large    breeches    tied    at    the    knees  with  ribbons— a  German  fashion. 


THE   MISANTHROPE  287 

have  more  reason  to  be  offended,  if  you  saw  me  entirely 
taken  up  with  one. 

Alceste.  Yet  I,  whom  you  blame  for  too  much  jealousy,  pray 
what  have  I  more  than  any  of  them  ? 

Celimene.  The  happiness  of  knowing  that  you  are  loved. 

Alceste.  And  how  can  my  yearning  heart  feel  assured  of  it  ? 

Celimene.  I  should  think  that  as  I  have  taken  the  trouble  to 
tell  you  so,  such  a  confession  ought  to  satisfy  you. 

Alceste.  But  how  shall  I  feel  sure  that  you  do  not  say  as  much 
to  everybody  else  at  the  same  time? 

Celimi^ne,  Truly,  a  pretty  speech  for  a  lover!  You  make  me 
out  to  be  a  nice  person !  Very  well ;  to  spare  you  any 
such  suspicion,  I  retract  at  once  all  that  I  have  said ;  and 
the  possibility  of  being  deceived,  rests  now  with  you  alone. 
Are  you  satisfied  ? 

Alceste.  Alas!  why  do  I  love  you  so  much?  Oh!  if  ever 
I  free  my  heart  from  this  thraldom,  I  will  bless  Heaven 
for  my  rare  good  fortune !  I  do  not  wish  to  hide  it  from 
you;  I  do  all  I  can  to  tear  from  my  heart  this  terrible 
fondness,  but  my  most  strenuous  efforts  have  failed  hither- 
to.   It  is  for  my  sins  that  I  love  you  thus. 

Celimene.  It  is  true,  your  love  for  me  is  unparalleled. 

Alceste.  Yes,  I  can  challenge  the  whole  world.  The  depth 
of  my  love  no  one  can  conceive,  and  never,  madam,  has 
any  man  loved  as  I  do. 

Celimene.  Quite  so;  your  method  is  entirely  new,  for  you 
love  people  only  to  quarrel  with  them  ;  your  passion  breaks 
out  only  in  unkind  words,  and  never  was  there  seen  such 
a  grumbling  lover. 

Alceste.  But  it  depends  entirely  on  you  for  his  grumbling 
to  cease.  For  pity's  sake,  let  us  cut  short  all  these  dis- 
cussions, and  let  us  deal  openly  with  one  another,  and  see 
if  we  can  put  a  stop  to     .     .     . 

Scene  II. 

Celimene,  Alceste,  Basque 

Celimene.  What  is  the  matter? 
Ba.sque.  Acastc  is  downstairs. 
Celimene.  Very  well ;  tell  him  to  come  up. 


a88  MOLIERE 

Scene  III. 

'Alceste,  Celimene 

Alceste.  What!  can  I  never  have  a  moment  of  private  con- 
versation with  you?  Must  you  always  be  ready  to  re- 
ceive company,  and  cannot  you  for  once  make  up  your 
mind  to  refuse  your  door? 

Celimene.  Do  you  wish  me  to  quarrel  with  him? 

Alceste.  I  cannot  approve  such  affable  manners. 

Celimene.  He  is  a  man  never  to  forgive  me,  if  he  knew  that 
I  could  feel  annoyed  at  his  visits. 

Alceste.  And  what  is  that  to  you,  that  you  should  incon- 
venience yourself  in  that  fashion? 

Celimene.  Indeed!  the  good-will  of  men  like  him  should  be 
considered,  for  somehow  he  is  one  of  those  people  who 
manage  to  be  heard  at  Court.  They  mix  in  all  conversa-. 
tions,  and  even  if  they  can  do  you  no  good,  they  can  do 
you  harm.  Whatever  support  one  may  have  elsewhere, 
it  would  never  do  to  make  an  enemy  of  such  loud  talkers. 

Alceste.  In  short,  whatever  one  may  say  or  do,  you  still  find 
reasons  to  bear  with  everyone;  and  the  wisdom  of  your 
judgment     .     .     . 


Scene  IV. 

Alceste,  Celimhie,  Basque 

Basque.  Clitandre  is  here  also,  madam. 
Alceste.  I  expected  as  much,     [About  to  go, 
Celimene,  Where  are  you  running  away  to? 
Alceste.  I  am  going. 
Celimene.  Stay  here. 
Alceste.  Why  should  I  stay? 
Celimene,  Stay. 
Alceste.  I  cannot. 
Celimene.  I  wish  it 

Alceste,  No,  no;    these  conversations  only  weary  me,  and 
you  ask  too  much  when  you  wish  me  to  bear  with  them. 


THE   MISANTHROPE  tSg 

Celimene.  I  insist  upon  your  staying. 

Alceste.  No,  it  is  impossible. 

Celimene.  Very  well,  go,  then ;  do  just  as  you  please. 


Scene  V. 

Eliante,  Philinte,  Acaste,  Clitandre,  Alceste,  Celimene,  Basque 

Eliante  [to  Celimene],  Here  are  the  two  marquises  coming 
up  with  us.    Have  you  been  told  of  it  ? 

CthiMti^-E  [to  Basque].  Chairs  for  everybody.  [Basque  places 
chairs  and  exit.]  [Aside  to  Alceste:]  What!  you  are 
not  gone  yet? 

Alceste.  No,  but  I  am  determined  to  force  you  to  choose 
between  them  and  me. 

Celimene.  Be  quiet. 

Alceste.  You  will  explain  yourself  this  very  day. 

Celimene.  You  are  surely  losing  your  senses. 

Alceste.  I  am  doing  nothing  of  the  kind;  you  shall  declare 
yourself. 

Celimene.  Ah! 

Alceste.  You  shall  decide  between  them  and  me. 

Celimene.  You  are  laughing,  I  suppose. 

Alceste.  No,  you  shall  make  up  your  mind ;  my  forbearance 
is  at  an  end. 

Clitandre.  Egad !  madam,  I  have  just  come  from  the  Louvre, 
where  Cleonte,  at  the  levee,  made  himself  supremely  ridicu- 
lous. Has  he  no  friend  who  could  give  him  some  char- 
itable advice  on  his  behavior? 

Celimene.  It  is  true  that  he  sadly  compromises  his  reputa- 
tion ;  his  manners  everywhere  at  once  strike  us  as  odd ; 
and  when  after  a  short  absence  we  see  him  again,  he 
seems  even  more  absurd  than  before. 

Acaste.  'Gad!  talking  of  absurd  people,  I  have  just  had  to 
bear  with  that  most  trying  of  tedious  bores,  the  argiier 
Damon ;  if  you  will  believe  me,  he  kept  me  out  of  my 
sedan-chair  in  the  broiling  sun  for  a  whole  hour. 

Celimene.  He  certainly  is  a  strange  talker,  and  knows  how 
to  make  long  speeches  with  no  meaning  in  them.    No  one 


290  MOLIERE 

understands  a  word  of  what  he  says;  and  in  all  that  we 
hear,  there  is  nothing  but  noise. 

Eliante  [to  Philinte].  This  is  no  bad  beginning,  and  the 
conversation  is  in  a  fair  way  against  our  neighbors. 

Clitandre.  Timante,  madam,  is  another  original.* 

Celimilne.  He  is  a  man  all  mystery  from  head  to  foot.  In 
passing  he  casts  upon  one  a  bewildered  glance,  and  with 
nothing  to  do  is  always  busy.  Grimaces  abound  in  what- 
ever he  says :  and  he  wearies  one  to  death  with  his  cere- 
monies. In  the  midst  of  a  general  conversation  he  has 
always  some  secret  to  whisper,  and  that  secret  turns  out 
to  be  nothing.  He  makes  a  wonder  of  the  merest  trifle, 
and  even  wishes  you  "  good  morning "  mysteriously  in 
your  ear. 

AcASTE.  And  Gerald,  madam? 

Celimene.  Oh !  the  tedious  boaster !  You  never  see  him 
come  down  from  his  noble  pedestal.  He  is  always  mix- 
ing in  the  best  society,  and  never  quotes  anyone  less  than 
duke,  prince,  or  princess.  Rank  has  turned  his  head,  and 
all  his  talk  is  of  horses,  carriages,  and  dogs.  He  thou's 
people  of  the  highest  position,  and  the  word  "  sir  "  is  with 
him  quite  obsolete. 

Clitandre.  It  is  said  that  he  is  on  the  best  terms  with  Belise. 

Celimene.  Ah!  the  poor  creature;  and  what  dull  company 
she  is!  I  suffer  martyrdom  when  she  comes  to  see  me. 
In  vain  do  I  tax  my  powers  to  the  utmost,  to  find  out  what 
to  say  to  her;  the  barrenness  of  her  talk  destroys  every 
attempt  at  conversation.  It  is  useless  to  have  recourse 
to  the  most  commonplace  topics  to  overcome  her  stupid 
silence;  the  fine  weather,  the  rain,  the  cold,  and  the  heat 
are  soon  exhausted.  Yet  her  visits,  in  themselves  so  un- 
welcome, drag  their  weary  length  along,  and  you  may 
consult  the  clock  and  yawn  twenty  times,  but  she  stirs  no 
more  than  a  log  of  wood. 

Acaste.  And  what  do  you  think  of  Adraste  ? 

Celimene.  Ah!  what  intolerable  pride!  He  is  a  man  puffed 
up  with  self-conceit,  always  dissatisfied  with  the  Court, 
and  who  makes  it  his  business  daily  to  inveigh  against  it. 
There  is  neither  office,  place,  nor  living  given  away,  with- 

•  The  Comte  de  Saint-Gilles,  according  to  commentators. 


THE   MISANTHROPE  291 

out  some  injustice  having  been  done  to  the  important  per- 
sonage he  fancies  himself  to  be. 

Clitandre.  But  young  Cleon,  who  is  visited  by  the  best  so- 
ciety, what  do  you  say  of  him? 

Celimene.  That  his  cook  has  all  the  merit,  and  that  it  is  to 
his  table  that  each  one  pays  respect. 

Eliante.  He  takes  care  to  provide  the  most  dainty  dishes. 

Celimene.  Yes,  but  I  wish  he  would  not  provide  himself ;  and 
I  consider  his  stupid  person  a  most  unpleasant  dish,  which, 
to  my  mind,  spoils  the  taste  of  all  the  others. 

Philinte.  His  uncle,  Damis,  is  greatly  esteemed;  what  do 
you  say  of  him,  madam  ? 

Celimene.  He  is  one  of  my  friends. 

Philinte.  He  is  a  gentleman,  and  has  plenty  of  good  sense. 

Celimene.  Yes;  only  the  display  of  cleverness  he  makes, 
vexes  me  beyond  measure.  He  is  always  stiff  and  formal, 
and  in  all  he  says  you  can  feel  the  effort  he  is  making  to 
utter  some  witticism.  Since  he  has  taken  it  into  his  head 
to  think  himself  clever,  he  is  go  exacting  that  nothing  can 
please  his  taste.  He  tries  to  see  defects  in  all  that  is 
written ;  thinks  that  to  bestow  praise  is  not  worthy  of  a 
man  of  intelligence ;  that  it  is  a  sign  of  knowledge  to  find 
fault  with  everything,  the  part  of  fools  to  admire  and  to 
laugh;  and  that  in  never  approving  the  writings  of  our 
time  he  shows  his  superiority  to  other  people.  He  even 
finds  fault  with  ordinary  conversations,  and  will  not  con- 
descend to  utter  common  things ;  but,  his  arms  crossed  on 
his  breast,  looks  down  with  contempt  from  the  height  of 
his  intellect  on  all  that  is  said. 

Acaste.  Demmit,  madam,  his  very  picture! 

Clitandre.  Your  skill  in  drawing  character  is  admirable, 
madam. 

Alceste.  Go  on,  go  on,  my  dear  courtly  friends;  no  one  is 
spared,  and  each  will  have  his  turn;  yet,  let  any  one  of 
those  people  now  appear,  and  we  shall  see  you  rush  in 
haste  to  meet  him,  offer  him  your  hand,  and,  with  a  flatter- 
ing embrace,  protest  you  are  his  sincere  friend. 

Clitandre.  Why  do  you  call  us  to  account?  If  you  object  to 
what  is  said,  you  had  better  address  your  reproaches  to 
this  lady. 


29a  MOLIERE 

Alceste.  No,  upon  my  soul,  no!  It  is  you  who  deserve  the 
blame ;  your  fawning  smiles  draw  from  her  these  slan- 
derous descriptions;  her  satirical  turn  of  mind  is  con- 
stantly encouraged  by  the  criminal  incense  of  your  flattery. 
She  would  find  raillery  less  to  her  taste  if  she  knew  that 
it  is  not  approved  of.  Thus  it  is  that  flatterers  are  always 
responsible  for  the  vices  spread  among  mankind. 

Philinte.  But  why  show  such  deep  interest  for  those  people? 
You  would  be  the  first  to  condemn  in  them  the  defects  we 
find  fault  with. 

Celimene.  But  must  not  our  friend  always  show  opposition? 
You  surely  would  not  have  him  think  like  everybody  else, 
and  must  he  not  display  everywhere  the  spirit  of  contra- 
diction with  which  Heaven  has  blessed  him  ?  What  others 
think  never  satisfies  him ;  he  is  always  of  the  opposite 
opinion,  and  he  would  fear  to  pass  for  a  vulgar-minded 
man  if  he  were  observed  to  agree  with  anyone.  The  privi- 
lege of  contradicting  has  such  charms  for  him,  that  he 
is  often  in  arms  against  himself;  and  to  hear  his  own 
thoughts  expressed  by  others,  is  sufficient  to  make  him 
oppose  them. 

Alceste.  The  laughers  are  on  your  side,  madam;  that  is 
everything,  and  you  may  freely  indulge  in  your  satirical 
mood  against  me. 

Philinte.  But  you  know  also  that  you  always  fire  up  against 
anything  that  is  said,  and  that  through  your  avowed  irri- 
tability of  disposition  you  cannot  bear  to  hear  people  either 
praised  or  blamed. 

Alceste.  'Sdeath!  It  is  because  men  are  never  in  the  right, 
and  that  anger  against  them  is  always  reasonable;  for 
in  everything  they  prove  themselves  to  be  either  unblush- 
ing flatterers  or  rash  censors. 

Celimene.  But    .    .    . 

Alceste.  No,  madam,  no ;  though  I  were  to  die  for  it,  I  must 
speak  out.  You  have  amusements  which  I  cannot  tol- 
erate, and  it  is  wrong  of  everyone  here  to  encourage  in 
you  the  great  tendency  you  have  to  the  defects  which  I 
blame. 

Clitandre.  As  for  myself,  I  do  not  know,  but  I  openly  declare 
that  hitherto  I  have  believed  this  lady  to  be  faultless. 


THE   MISANTHROPE  293 

AcASTE.  I  see  her  endowed  with  beauty  and  attractions;  but 
if  she  has  any  defects,  I  fail  to  see  them. 

Alceste.  I  see  them  all,  and,  far  from  affecting  to  be  blind 
to  her  faults,  she  will  tell  you  that  I  take  great  care  to 
reproach  her  with  them.  The  more  devotedly  we  love, 
the  less  we  ought  to  flatter.  True  love  shows  itself  in  not 
passing  over  anything ;  and,  for  my  part,  I  would  banish 
from  my  presence  all  those  mean-spirited  lovers  so  sub- 
missive to  what  I  say  or  think,  and  whose  tame  obsequi- 
ousness panders  to  all  my  vagaries. 

Celimene.  In  a  word,  according  to  you,  when  we  are  truly 
in  love  we  ought  to  banish  all  tenderness,  and  to  believe 
that  the  highest  aim  of  perfect  sympathy  is  to  upbraid 
sharply  those  with  whom  we  sympathize. 

Eliante.  This  is  not  generally  the  way  of  love,  and  lovers 
ever  extol  the  object  of  their  choice.  They  can  see  noth- 
ing to  blame,  and  everything  becomes  charming.  They 
think  faults  perfections,  and  invent  endearing  terms  by 
which  to  call  them.  She  who  is  pale  vies  in  fairness  with 
the  jessamine ;  the  negress  is  an  adorable  brunette ;  a 
grace  the  lean  and  spare ;  she  who  is  stout,  has  a  bearing 
full  of  majesty ;  the  slattern,  with  but  few  charms,  passes 
for  a  careless  beauty;  the  giantess  becomes  a  goddess, 
and  the  dwarf  an  epitome  of  Heaven's  wonders ;  the 
haughty  beauty  has  a  soul  worthy  of  a  diadem ;  deceitful- 
ness  passes  for  wit,  and  stupidity  for  good  nature ;  the 
over-talkative  is  of  a  cheerful  disposition,  and  she  who  is 
mute  has  retiring  ways.  Thus  it  is  that  a  passionate  lover 
cherishes  even  the  defects  of  her  he  adores. 

Alceste.  And  I  maintain     .     .     . 

Celimene.  Let  us  drop  the  subject,  and  go  and  take  a  turn 
or  two  in  the  gallery.    What !   are  you  going,  gentlemen  ? 

Clitandre,  Acaste  [together].  No,  madam. 

Alceste.  The  fear  of  losing  them  greatly  troubles  you.  Go 
when  you  please,  gentlemen ;  but  I  warn  you  that  I  shall 
only  leave  after  you  are  gone. 

Acaste.  Unless  my  presence  should  prove  importunate,  noth- 
ing calls  me  elsewhere  to-day. 

Clitandre.  As  for  me,  provided  I  am  in  time  for  the  petit 
coucher,  I  have  no  other  engagement  to  call  me  away. 


,94  MOLIERE 

Celimene  [to  Alceste].  Surely,  this  is  only  a  joke. 
Alceste.  Not  so.    We  shall  see  if  it  is  me  you  wish  to  send 
away. 

Scene  VI. 
Alceste,  Celimene,  Eliante,  Acaste,  Philinte,  Clitandre,  Basque 

Basque  [to  Alceste].  Sir,  there  is  a  man  downstairs  who 
wants  to  speak  to  you  on  business  which  cannot  be  put  off. 

Alceste.  Tell  him  that  I  have  no  such  urgent  business. 

Basque.  He  has  a  jacket  on  with  large  plaited  skirts,  all  em- 
broidered with  gold. 

Celimene  [to  Alceste].  Go  and  see  who  it  is,  or  else  make 
him  come  in. 

Scene  VII. 

Alceste,  Celimene,  Eliante,  Acaste,  Philinte,  Clitandre,  a  Guard 
of  the  Marechaussee 

Alceste  [going  to  meet  the  Guard].  Well,  what  is  it  you  want 
of  me  ?    Come  in,  sir. 

Guard.  I  want  to  speak  a  word  or  two  privately  with  you. 

Alceste.  You  can  speak  out  loud,  and  tell  me  what  it  is  that 
brings  you  here. 

Guard.  The  Marshals  of  France,  with  whose  commands  I  am 
charged,  hereby  summon  you  to  appear  immediately  be- 
fore them,  sir. 

Alceste.  Whom  do  you  say?    Me? 

Guard.  Yourself. 

Alceste.  And  what  for? 

Philinte  [to  Alceste].  It  is  this  ridiculous  affair  of  yours 
with  Oronte. 

Celimene  [to  Philinte].  What  is  it  all  about? 

Philinte.  Oronte  and  he  got  angry  to-day  with  one  another 
about  some  trifling  verses  he  would  not  approve  of,  and 
the  Marshals  no  doubt  want,  to  hush  up  the  matter  at  once. 

Alceste.  I  shall  show  no  servile  compliance. 

Philinte.  However,  you  must  obev  the  summons ;  come,  get 
ready. 


THE   MISANTHROPE  295 

Alceste.  What  possible  understanding  can  we  come  to?  Will 
the  decree  of  these  gentlemen  oblige  me  to  speak  highly 
of  the  verses  which  are  the  cause  of  our  quarrel?  I  can- 
not retract  what  I  have  said ;   I  think  them  bad. 

Philinte.  But  with  a  more  conciliatory  tone     .     .     . 

Alceste.  I  shall  not  yield ;  the  verses  are  execrable. 

Philinte.  Try  to  show  yourself  a  little  more  tractable. 
Come  on. 

Alceste.  Unless  an  express  command  comes  from  the  king 
for  me  to  approve  of  the  verses  about  which  so  much  ado 
is  made,  by  gad !  I  shall  maintain  that  they  are  detestable, 
and  that  a  man  deserves  to  be  hanged  for  having  made 
them.  [To  Clitandre  and  Acaste,  zvho  laugh.]  'Sdeath! 
gentlemen,  I  did  not  think  I  was  so  amusing. 

Celimene.  Go  quickly  where  you  are  wanted. 

Alceste.  I  am  going,  madam,  but  I  shall  soon  be  back  here 
to  finish  our  discussion. 


ACT  THIRD 

Scene  I. 

Clitandre,  Acaste 

Clitandre.  My  dear  marquis,  I  see  you  beaming  with  satis- 
faction :  you  are  amused  at  everything,  and  nothing  seems 
to  alarm  you.  Now,  do  you  really  and  truly  believe,  with- 
out flattering  yourself,  that  you  have  good  reason  to  ap- 
pear so  joyful  ? 

Acaste.  By  Jove!  I  do  not  see,  when  looking  at  myself,  that 
I  have  any  reason  to  be  sad.  I  am  rich  and  young;  I 
come  of  a  family  which  can  call  itself  noble  with  some 
appearance  of  truth ;  and  I  think  that,  thanks  to  the  rank 
I  hold  from  my  ancestors,  there  are  few  positions  for 
which  I  am  not  fit.  As  for  courage,  which  we  ought  to 
value  above  all  things,  it  is  well  known,  without  boasting 
on  my  part,  that  I  am  not  wanting  in  that,  and  people 
have  seen  me  carry  on  a  certain  affair  of  honor  with  vigor 
and  determination  enough.     As  for  wit,  I  undoubtedly 


«96 


MOLIERE 


possess  some,  I  have  also  good  natural  taste,  which  en- 
ables me  to  judge  and  reason  upon  everything  without 
study;  to  play  the  knowing  critic  upon  the  stage,  when, 
to  my  delight,  any  new  piece  comes  out;  to  give  my 
opinion  as  a  judge,  and  to  set  the  whole  house  going  at  all 
the  passages  which  deserve  applause.  I  have  tact,  per- 
fect manners,  good  looks,  particularly  fine  teeth,  and  a 
very  elegant  figure.  As  to  dress,  few,  I  believe,  would 
dispute  the  palm  with  me.  I  am  esteemed  as  much  as  one 
can  be ;  greatly  beloved  by  the  fair  sex,  and  in  favor  with 
the  king.  Now,  I  do  think  that  with  all  these  advantages, 
my  dear  marquis,  I  do  verily  think  that  a  man  may  well 
rest  satisfied  with  himself  in  whatever  country  he  may  be. 

Clitandre.  Very  true.  But  how  is  it  that,  finding  conquests 
so  easy  elsewhere,  you  come  here  to  utter  fruitless  sighs? 

AcASTE.  I  utter  fruitless  sighs!  Egad!  I  am  neither  of  the 
mould  nor  disposition  to  endure  the  indifference  of  any 
woman.  It  is  good  for  awkward  and  ordinary  men  to 
languish  at  the  feet  of  inexorable  beauties,  and  to  bear 
with  their  indifference;  to  invoke  the  help  of  sighs  and 
tears,  and  endeavor  to  obtain  by  much  long-suffering  what 
is  refused  to  their  scanty  worth.  But  men  of  my  stamp, 
marquis,  are  not  made  to  love  upon  trust  and  to  bear  all 
the  trouble.  However  great  may  be  the  merit  of  the  fair 
sex,  I  fancy,  thank  Heaven !  that  we  are  worth  our  price ; 
that  to  take  pride  in  the  possession  of  a  heart  like  mine, 
it  should  of  necessity  cost  them  something;  and  that  it  is 
but  just  and  proper  that  all  advances  should  be  mutual. 

Clitandre.  You  believe,  then,  marquis,  that  your  position  here 
leaves  nothing  to  be  desired  ? 

AcASTE.  I  have  reason,  marquis,  to  believe  it  to  be  so. 

Clitandre.  Trust  me,  marquis,  bid  farewell  to  such  delusion. 
You  flatter  yourself,  my  dear  friend,  and  blindly  deceive 
yourself. 

AcASTE.  Quite  right;   I  flatter  and  deceive  myself. 

Clitandre.  But  what  can  make  you  believe  in  such  absolute 
success  ? 

Acaste.  I  flatter  myself. 

Clitandre.  Upon  what  do  you  ground  your  belief? 

Acaste.  I  blindly  deceive  myself. 


THE   MISANTHROPE  297 

Clitandre.  Have  you  any  certain  proofs  ? 

AcASTE.  I  am  altogether  mistaken,  I  tell  you. 

Clitandre.  Has  Celimene  made  you  any  secret  avowal  of  her 
preference  for  you? 

AcASTE.  No ;  I  am  very  ill-used  by  her. 

Clitandre.  Answer  me,  I  pray. 

AcASTE.  I  meet  with  nothing  but  repulses. 

Clitandre.  Leave  off  your  raillery.  Tell  me  what  hope  she 
has  given  you. 

Acaste.  I  am  the  rejected  lover,  and  you  the  fortunate  one. 
She  bears  to  my  whole  person  the  strongest  aversion,  and 
there  is  no  doubt  but  that  one  of  these  days  I  shall  have  to 
hang  myself. 

Clitandre.  Look  here,  marquis;  will  you  be  straightforward 
in  this  our  love  affair,  and  agree  to  one  thing: — that  if  one 
of  us  two  can  show  satisfactory  proof  that  he  has  the  larger 
share  in  Celimene's  affections,  the  other  will  give  up  the 
field  to  the  probable  conqueror,  and  thereby  rid  him  of  an 
obstinate  rival  ? 

Acaste.  Egad !  your  proposal  pleases  me,  and  I  agpree  to  it 
with  all  my  heart.    But,  hush ! 

Scene  II. 

Celimene,  Acaste,  Clitandre 

Celimene.  What!  still  here? 

Clitandre.  Love  detains  us,  madam. 

Celimene.  I  just  heard  a  carriage  coming;    do  you  know 

who  it  is? 
Clitandre.  No. 

Scene  III. 

Celimene,  Acaste,  Clitandre,  Basque 

Basque.  Arsinoe,  madam,  is  coming  up  to  see  you. 
Celimene.  What  can  the  woman  want  with  me? 
Basque.  Eliante  is  there  also,  talking  with  her. 
Celimene.  What  has  she  taken  into  her  head?     What  can 
possibly  bring  her  here  ? 


agS  MOLIERE 

AcASTE.  She  is  known  for  a  perfect  prude  wherever  she  goes, 
and  the  ardor  of  her  zeal    .    .    . 

Celimene.  Yes,  yes,  all  pure  afifectation.  In  her  inmost  soul 
she  is  as  worldly  as  any  of  us,  and  all  her  anxiety  is  to 
hook  somebody — not  that  she  has  any  chance  of  success. 
She  looks  with  envy  at  the  lovers  of  others,  and,  seeing  her- 
self forsaken  by  all,  she  ever  raves  against  the  blindness 
of  the  age.  She  tries  to  hide  behind  the  sham  veil  of  the 
prude  the  frightful  isolation  of  her  heart  and,  to  save  the 
credit  of  her  feeble  charms,  she  condemns  as  criminal  the 
power  they  do  not  possess.  Yet  a  lover  would  greatly 
please  the  lady,  and  she  has  a  certain  weakness  for  Alceste, 
The  addresses  he  pays  me  are  an  insult  to  her  attractions, 
a  robbery  of  which  she  is  the  victim  ;  and  her  jealous  vexa- 
tion, which  she  can  scarcely  hide,  vents  itself  anywhere 
and  at  any  time  by  some  underhand  fling  at  me.  Indeed, 
I  never  saw  anything  more  stupid ;  she  is  rude  to  the  last 
degree,  and    .    . 

Scene  IV. 

Arsinoe,  Celimene,  Clitandre,  Acaste 

Celimene.  Ah,  madam!  what  happy  chance  brings  you  here? 

I  was  getting  sincerely  anxious  about  you. 
Arsinoe.  I  have  come,  prompted  by  duty,  to  give  you  some 

advice. 
Celimene.  Ah,  how  pleased  I  am  to  see  you ! 

[Exeunt  Clitandre  and  Acaste,  laughing. 

Scene  V. 

Arsinoe,  Celimene 

Arsinoe.  Their  departure  could  not  be  more  opportune. 

Celimene.  Shall  we  sit  down? 

Arsinoe.  No,  it  is  not  necessary.  Friendship,  madam,  ought 
especially  to  show  itself  in  those  things  which  we  consider 
of  the  greatest  consequence  to  us ;  and  as  there  are  none 
of  more  importance  than  honor  and  reputation,  I  come  to 


THE    MISANTHROPE  199 

prove  my  friendship  to  you  by  giving  you  a  piece  of  ad- 
vice which  closely  concerns  your  honor.  I  was  yesterday 
visiting  some  virtuous  and  upright  friends  of  mine,  when 
the  conversation  turned,  madam,  upon  you.  I  am  sorry 
to  say  that  your  conduct,  and  the  scandal  it  causes,  was 
far  from  being  approved  of.  That  crowd  of  people  whose 
visits  you  encourage;  your  gallantry,  and  the  rumors  to 
which  it  gives  rise,  found  censors  more  numerous  than 
should  be,  and  more  severe  than  I  could  have  wished. 
You  can  easily  imagine  which  part  I  took.  I  did  all  in 
my  power  to  defend  you.  I  vindicated  your  conduct  on 
the  plea  of  your  good  intentions,  and  made  myself  answer- 
able for  the  honesty  of  your  heart.  But  you  know  that 
there  are  in  life  certain  things  that  we  cannot  excuse, 
however  desirous  we  may  be  of  doing  so ;  and  I  was 
forced  at  last  to  acknowledge  that  the  way  in  which  you 
live  does  you  harm ;  that  it  assumes  a  very  suspicious  look 
in  the  eyes  of  the  world,  and  gives  occasion  to  many  an 
ill-natured  story  to  be  spread  about;  although  you  have 
but  to  wish  it,  for  your  conduct  to  give  less  hold  to  un- 
charitable tongues.  Not  that  I  could  think  for  one  mo- 
ment that  virtue  has  been  outraged.  Heaven  preserve  me 
from  such  a  thought!  But  people  too  easily  trust  the 
appearances  of  guilt,  and  it  is  not  sufficient  for  us  to  lead 
a  blameless  life  if  we  neglect  these  appearances.  I  feel 
sure,  madam,  that  you  are  too  sensible  not  to  take  in  good 
part  this  kindly-meant  advice,  and  not  to  attribute  it  merely 
to  the  earnestness  of  an  affection  which  makes  me  anxious 
for  your  welfare. 
Celimene.  Madam,  I  have  many  thanks  to  return  to  you,  and 
such  advice  lays  me  under  great  obligation.  Far  from 
taking  it  unkindly,  I  am  only  too  anxious  at  once  to  prove 
my  gratitude  by  giving  you  on  my  part  a  certain  piece 
of  advice,  which,  wonderful  to  say,  closely  concerns  your 
honor;  and  as  I  see  you  prove  yourself  my  friend  by 
informing  me  of  the  reports  that  people  spread  about  me, 
I  wish,  in  my  turn,  to  follow  so  pleasing  an  example  by 
acquainting  you  with  what  is  said  of  you.  In  a  certain 
house,  where  I  waS  visiting  the  other  day,  I  met  with 
people  of  the  most  striking  merit;   and  they,  speaking  of 


300 


MOLIERE 


the  duties  of  a  person  who  leads  a  virtuous  life,  turned  the 
conversation,  madam,  upon  you.  There,  your  prudish- 
ness  and  the  vehemence  of  your  zeal  were  by  no  means 
quoted  as  a  good  example.  That  affectation  of  a  grave 
demeanor;  your  everlasting  speeches  on  discretion  and 
honor;  your  simpering,  and  your  outcries  at  the  shadow 
of  any  impropriety  which  an  innocent  though  ambiguous 
word  may  present;  the  high  esteem  in  which  you  hold 
yourself,  and  the  looks  of  pity  you  cast  upon  others;  your 
frequent  lectures  and  your  sharp  censures  on  things  which 
are  harmless  and  pure;  all  this,  madam,  if  I  may  speak 
the  plain  truth,  was  blamed  by  common  accord.  "  What 
signify,"  said  they,  "  that  modest  mien  and  that  grave 
manner,  which  are  belied  by  all  the  rest?  She  is  most  ex- 
act at  all  her  prayers,  but  she  beats  her  servants  ar^  pays 
them  no  wages.  She  makes  the  greatest  display  of  fervor 
in  all  places  of  worship,  but  she  paints  and  wishes  to  ap- 
pear beautiful.  She  has  all  nudities  covered  in  her  pictures, 
but  she  delights  in  the  reality."  For  my  part,  I  under- 
took your  defence  against  everyone,  and  assured  them 
it  was  all  calumny ;  but  the  general  opinion  went  against 
me,  and  the  conclusion  was  that  you  would  do  well  to  be 
less  solicitous  about  other  people's  actions  and  take  more 
pains  about  your  own ;  that  we  should  examine  ourselves 
a  great  deal  before  thinking  of  condemning  others;  that 
we  ought  to  add  the  weight  of  an  exemplary  life  to  the 
corrections  we  pretend  to  make  in  our  neighbors ;  and 
that,  after  all,  it  would  be  better  still  to  leave  that  care  to 
those  who  were  ordained  by  Heaven  for  it.  Madam,  I 
believe  that  you  also  are  too  sensible  not  to  take  in  good 
part  this  kindly-meant  advice,  and  not  to  attribute  it  to 
the  earnestness  of  an  affection  which  makes  me  anxious 
for  your  welfare. 

Arsinoe.  Whatever  we  may  be  exposed  to  when  we  admon- 
ish another,  I  was  not  prepared,  madam,  for  such  a  retort 
as  this ;  and  I  can  see,  by  the  bitterness  of  your  speech, 
that  my  sincere  advice  has  hurt  your  feelings. 

Celimene.  On  the  contrary,  madam,  if  the  world  were  wise, 
it  would  bring  these  mutual  counsels  into  fashion.  Sin- 
cerity in  such  a  course  of  action  would  help  to  destroy 


THE   MISANTHROPE  301 

that  over-estimation  of  our  own  merit  which  we  all  have. 
It  depends  entirely  on  you,  madam,  for  us  two  to  con- 
tinue this  kindly  office  with  equal  zeal  on  both  sides,  and 
to  take  great  care  to  repeat  what  we  hear :  you  of  me, 
I  of  you. 

•Arsinoe.  Ah!  madam,  I  can  hear  nothing  to  your  disadvan- 
tage ;  it  is  only  in  me  that  there  is  so  much  to  reprove. 

Celimene.  Madam,  my  belief  is  that  we  may  praise  or  blame 
everything ;  and  that  everything  is  right  according  to  age 
and  taste.  There  is  a  time  for  gallantry,  and  a  time  for 
prudery.  We  may  adopt  the  latter  out  of  policy,  when  the 
glorious  freshness  of  our  youth  has  left  us ;  it  covers  much 
vexatious  neglect.  I  am  not  at  all  sure  but  that  I  shall  fol- 
low your  example  some  day.  Age  will  bring  about  many 
changes;  but  it  is  not  the  time,  madam,  as  you  will  ac- 
knowledge, to  play  the  prude  at  twenty. 

Arsinoe.  You  boast  of  a  very  trifling  advantage,  madam, 
and  you  proclaim  your  age  very  loudly.  The  difference 
there  may  be  between  yours  and  mine  is  not  so  very  great 
for  you  to  make  so  much  of  it,  and  I  do  not  know  why  you 
give  way  to  so  passionate  an  outburst  and  abuse  me  so 
unmercifully. 

Celimene.  Neither  do  I  know,  madam,  why  you  should  every- 
where show  yourself  so  bitter  against  me.  Why  should  you 
lay  at  my  door  all  the  vexations  you  may  have  ?  Am  I  re- 
sponsible for  the  advances  that  are  not  made  to  you?  If 
my  presence  inspires  men  with  love,  and  if  they  persist  in , 
offering  me  every  day  attentions  which  your  heart  may  de- 
sire for  yourself,  I  have  no  power  to  prevent  it,  and  it  is 
really  no  fault  of  mine.  You  are  perfectly  at  liberty,  and 
I  do  not  forbid  you  to  have  charms  to  attract  them. 

ARSiNoiJ.  Alas !  and  do  you  really  think  that  I  trouble  myself 
much  about  the  number  of  lovers  you  are  so  vain  of ;  and 
that  it  is  not  very  easy  to  judge  what  is  the  price  paid  now- 
adays to  attract  them?  Do  you  wish  to  make  people  be- 
lieve, with  what  we  see  going  on,  that  your  merit  attracts 
all  that  crowd  ?  that  they  are  all  inspired  with  a  pure,  honest 
love  for  you?  and  that  it  is  to  your  virtues  alone  they  pay 
their  court?  The  world  is  no  dupe,  and  is  not  blinded  by 
idle  pretences.    It  sees  some  women  who  are  made  to  inspire 


3oa  MOLIERE 

love,  and  who,  nevertheless,  retain  no  lovers  about  their 
persons ;  and  it  can  draw  its  own  inference.  No !  we  do  not 
make  such  conquests  without  great  advances ;  none  are  sat- 
isfied with  the  beauty  of  our  looks  only,  and  we  must  dearly 
buy  all  the  attentions  paid  to  us.  Do  not  pride  yourself 
so  much,  therefore,  upon  the  shallow  advantage  of  a 
miserable  victory,  and  think  with  less  haughtiness  of  your 
own  charms,  instead  of  looking  down  upon  others  because 
of  them.  If  we  were  envious  of  the  conquests  you  make,  I 
think  we  might  do  as  much,  be  under  no  restraint,  and  show 
you  easily  that  we  have  lovers  whenever  we  wish  for  them. 

Celimene.  Have  some  by  all  means,  madam,  and  let  us  see 
your  success ;  endeavor  by  this  excellent  expedient  to  please, 
and  without    .    .    . 

Arsinoe.  Let  us  cease,  madam,  such  a  conversation ;  it  would 
lead  us  too  far.  I  should  have  left  you  before  now  had  I 
not  been  forced  to  wait  for  my  carriage. 

Celimene.  Pray,  wait  as  long  as  you  please,  madam,  there  is  no 
need  for  you  to  hurry  away.  But  I  will  relieve  you  of  my 
presence  and  give  you  more  pleasant  company.  This  gen- 
tleman, whom  chance  sends  us  so  opportunely,  will  know 
better  than  I,  how  to  entertain  you. 

Scene  VI. 

Alceste,  Celimene,  Arsinoe 

Celimene.  Alceste,  I  am  obliged  to  go  and  write  a  letter  or  two 
which  cannot  be  put  off.  Pray  stop  with  this  lady ;  I  feel 
sure  she  will  kindly  excuse  my  incivility. 

Scene  VII. 

Alceste,  Arsinoe 

Arsinoe.  You  see  that  according  to  her  wish  I  am  to  entertain 
you  till  my  carriage  comes ;  and  never  could  she  have 
offered  to  me  anything  more  pleasant  than  such  a  conversa- 
tion. Yes,  indeed,  persons  eminently  endowed  with  merit 
command  the  love  and  esteem  of  everybody ;  and  no  doubt 
yours  has  some  secret  spell  which  attracts  my  heart  and 


THE   MISANTHROPE  303 

makes  me  feel  for  you  the  greatest  interest.  I  wish  that  the 
Court  would  render  justice  to  your  worth.  You  have  a 
right  to  complain,  and  I  am  carried  beyond  myself  when  I 
see,  as  each  day  passes,  that  nothing  is  done  for  you. 

Alceste.  For  me,  madam?  and  on  what  grounds  could  I  lay 
claim  to  anything?  What  services  have  I  rendered  to  the 
State  ?  Tell  me  what  I  have  done,  so  worthy  of  praise,  for 
me  to  complain  that  the  Court  does  nothing  for  me? 

Arsinoe.  It  is  not  everyone  on  whom  it  bestows  its  favor,  who 
has  rendered  these  signal  services;  opportunity  as  well  as 
power  is  necessary,  and  in  short  the  talents  everyone  sees 
in  you  should    .    .    . 

Alceste.  No  more  about  my  talents,  I  beg  of  you!  What 
would  you  have  the  Court  encumber  itself  with?  Its  task 
would  be  no  easy  one,  and  its  troubles  would  become 
strangely  great,  if  it  were  to  try  and  bring  to  light  the  merit 
of  everyone. 

ARSiNoit.  Transcendent  merit  will  bring  itself  to  light ;  yours  is 
greatly  valued  in  certain  circles,  and  you  ought  to  know 
that  twice  yesterday  in  my  hearing  you  were  much  praised 
by  people  of  high  standing. 

Alceste.  Ha !  madam,  everybody  is  praised  nowadays,  and  our 
age  treats  all  alike.  Ever}  man  has  great  merit  thrust 
upon  him.  No,  really,  it  is  no  longer  an  honor  to  be  ad- 
mired. We  are  crushed  with  praises ;  people  throw  them  in 
our  very  face,  and  even  my  servant  is  put  in  the  gazette. 

Arsinoe.  For  my  part,  I  wish  that  I  could  persuade  you  to  look 
after  some  place  at  Court  which  would  set  off  your  worth 
before  all  men.  Were  you  to  give  me  the  least  sign,  a 
great  many  influences  could  be  set  in  motion  to  serve  you, 
and  I  would  soon  find  people  ready  to  make  the  road  easy 
for  you. 

Alceste.  And  what  would  you  have  me  do  at  Court,  madam? 
I  am  by  disposition  forced  to  avoid  it.  Heaven,  in  sending 
me  into  this  world,  did  not  give  me  a  soul  that  could  breathe 
in  the  atmosphere  of  such  a  spot.  I  do  not  feel  in  me  the 
necessary  qualities  to  make  my  fortune  there.  To  tell  the 
truth  and  be  sincere  are  my  chief  talents.  When  speaking 
I  cannot  humor  people  in  order  to  deceive  them,  and  who- 
ever has  not  the  gift  of  hiding  his  thoughts  ought  to  make 

Classics.     Vol.  3G — N 


304  MOLIERE 

but  a  short  stay  in  such  places.  If  we  do  not  belong  to  the 
Court,  it  is  true  that  we  lose  the  position  and  honorable 
titles  which  in  our  days  it  bestows ;  but  at  the  same  time,  as 
a  compensation  for  the  loss  of  these  advantages,  we  are  not 
exposed  to  the  grief  of  playing  the  part  of  silly  personages. 
We  have  not  to  put  up  with  many  a  cruel  rebuff ;  to  praise 
the  verses  of  Mr.  So-and-so;  to  flatter  Lady  Such-a-one; 
nor  to  bear  with  the  follies  of  our  hare-brained  marquises. 

ARSiNoit.  Let  us  leave  this  subject  aside,  since  you  will  have  it 
so,  but  I  must  say  that  my  heart  cannot  help  pitying  you  in 
your  love,  and,  to  tell  you  the  truth,  I  sincerely  wish  that 
your  affections  could  be  better  placed.  You  certainly  de- 
serve a  better  fate,  for  she  whom  you  love  is  unworthy  of 
you. 

Alceste.  But  pray,  madam,  do  you  remember  while  you  speak, 
that  this  person  is  your  friend  ? 

Arsinoe.  Yes,  I  do;  but  my  conscience  has  suffered  too  long 
from  the  wrong  that  is  done  to  you.  The  position  you  are 
in  is  too  painful  for  me  to  bear,  and  I  cannot  help  telling 
you  that  your  love  is  shamefully  betrayed. 

Alceste.  You  certainly  show  a  great  concern  for  me,  madam, 
and  such  information  is  very  precious  to  a  lover. 

Arsinoe,  Yes,  indeed,  although  my  friend,  she  is,  I  grieve  to 
say,  unworthy  of  the  love  of  a  man  of  honor  like  you ;  for 
all  the  affection  she  shows  is  mere  deceit. 

Alceste.  It  may  be  so,  madam ;  one  cannot  read  people's  hearts ; 
but  your  charity  might  have  dispensed  with  raising  such 
suspicions  in  mine. 

Arsinoe.  If  you  do  not  wish  to  be  undeceived,  it  is  easy  enough 
to  say  no  more  to  you. 

Alceste.  Not  so,  madam.  But  on  such  a  subject  nothing  is 
more  unbearable  than  doubt,  and  I  should  prefer  a  plain 
statement  which  could  be  clearly  proved. 

Arsinoe.  Very  well,  it  is  enough,  and  you  shall  be  fully  en- 
lightened on  the  subject.  Yes,  you  shall  believe  the  testi- 
mony of  your  own  eyes  only.  Pray  accompany  me  to  my 
house ;  there  I  will  give  you  a  palpable  proof  of  the  faith- 
lessness of  her  you  love ;  and  if  after  that  you  can  still  think 
of  another,  perhaps  we  can  offer  you  some  consolation. 


THE   MISANTHROPE  305 

ACT    FOURTH 
Scene  I. 

Eliante,  Philinte 

Philinte.  No,  never  was  there  a  more  unbending  disposition, 
nor  a  reconciliation  more  difficult  to  bring  about.  In  vain 
were  all  means  tried  to  make  Alceste  alter  his  mind,  nothing 
could  make  him  change  his  first  opinion,  and  never  had 
so  whimsical  a  quarrel,  I  believe,  called  forth  all  the  dis- 
cretion of  those  gentlemen. — "  No,  gentlemen,"  said  he, 
"  I  cannot  retract  what  I  have  said,  and  I  am  ready  to  agree 
to  anything  except  to  this.  What  is  he  so  exasperated 
about,  and  what  can  he  want  of  me  ?  Is  his  glory  at  stake 
because  he  cannot  write  well?  What  need  has  he  of  my 
opinion  which  he  lias  taken  amiss  ?  He  may  be  a  perfect 
gentleman,  and  yet  write  bad  verses.  Honor  is  in  no  way 
concerned  in  such  matters ;  I  think  him  an  honorable  man 
in  every  way  ;  a  man  of  noble  birth,  of  merit  and  of  courage, 
anything  you  please — but  a  very  bad  author  notwithstand- 
ing. I  will  praise,  if  you  wish  me,  his  mode  of  living,  his 
munificence,  his  skill  in  riding,  fencing,  and  dancing;  but 
as  to  praising  his  verses — I  am  his  humble  servant,  and  I 
repeat  that  when  we  cannot  write  better,  we  should  avoid 
writing  altogether,  unless,  indeed,  we  are  condemned  to  it 
under  pain  of  death."  In  short,  the  only  conciliatory  meas- 
ure to  which  he  at  last  yielded  with  extreme  difficulty,  was 
to  say,  greatly  softening  his  tone  as  he  thought,  "  Sir,  I  am 
sorry  to  be  so  difficult  to  please ;  and  out  of  regard  for  you, 
I  wish  with  all  my  heart  that  I  had  been  able  to  think  your 
sonnet  better."  Thereupon  they  quickly  made  them  end  the 
whole  proceeding  with  an  embrace. 

Eliante.  He  certainly  behaves  \tvy  strangely  at  times,  but  I 
own  that  I  hold  him  in  great  esteem,  and  the  sincerity  he 
glories  in  has  in  it  something  noble  and  heroic.  It  is  a  rare 
virtue  in  our  days,  and  I  could  wish  to  see  everybody 
possess  it  as  he  does. 

Philinte.  As  for  me,  the  more  I  know  him  the  more  astonished 
I  am  at  the  passion  to  which  he  is  a  slave.    With  such  a  dis- 


3o6 


MOLIERE 


position,  I  cannot  understand  that  he  should  ever  have  taken 
into  his  head  to  love,  and  still  less  how  your  cousin  should 
be  the  person  of  his  choice- 

Eliante.  It  shows  that  it  is  not  always  conformity  of  disposi- 
tion which  brings  people  together,  and  all  those  stories  of 
love  springing  out  of  sympathy  are  belied  by  this  example. 

Philinte.  But  do  you  think,  from  what  we  can  see,  that  he  is 
loved  in  return  here  ? 

Eliante.  This  is  a  question  not  easily  solved.  How  can  one 
judge  whether  she  really  loves  him?  She  hardly  under- 
stands her  own  heart  herself.  At  times  she  loves  without 
being  aware  of  it,  and  at  others  she  believes  she  loves  when 
really  she  feels  nothing  of  the  kind. 

Philinte.  I  fear  that  our  friend  will  meet  with  more  sorrow 
than  he  imagines  from  this  cousin  of  yours ;  and  if  he  were 
of  my  mind  he  would  place  his  affection  elsewhere,  and  in 
making  a  better  choice,  answer  to  the  kind  feelings  your 
heart  shows  for  him. 

Eliante.  It  is  true ;  I  do  not  try  to  disguise  it,  and  I  think  that 
in  these  things  we  ought  to  be  sincere.  I  see  his  love  for 
another,  but  I  do  not  try  to  oppose  it ;  on  the  contrary,  I  feel 
a  great  interest  in  it  for  his  sake ;  and  did  it  depend  entirely 
on  me,  I  would  unite  him  to  the  object  of  his  love.  But  if 
something  goes  wrong,  as  it  well  may ;  if  his  love  is  to  be 
thwarted  by  another  lover,  I  can  bring  myself  to  accept 
Alceste's  addresses,  and  shall  feel  no  repugnance  whatever 
to  them  because  they  have  been  discarded  elsewhere. 

Philinte.  And  I,  madam,  I  also  see  your  kind  intentions  to- 
wards him  without  wishing  to  oppose  them  ;  he  could  even 
tell  you,  if  he  wished,  what  advice  I  gave  him  on  the  sub- 
ject. But  if  by  a  marriage  which  would  unite  them,  you 
were  prevented  from  receiving  his  attentions,  all  mine 
would  tend  to  gain  the  favors  you  would  so  kindly  bestow 
upon  him — too,  happy  if,  when  your  heart  has  ceased  to 
think  of  him,  you  can  transfer  your  regard  to  me. 

Eliante.  You  are  laughing,  Philinte  ? 

Philinte.  No,  madam,  I  speak  to  you  from  my  inmost  heart. 
I  keep  watch  for  the  time  when  I  shall  be  able  to  make  you 
an  offer  without  reserve,  and  I  eagerly  look  forward  to  that 
moment. 


THE   MISANTHROPE  307 

Scene  II. 

Alceste,  Philinte,  Eliante 

Alceste.  Ah,  madam !  avenge  me  for  an  offence  which  has 
triumphed  over  all  my  constancy. 

Eliante.  What  is  it  ?    What  can  disturb  you  so  much  ? 

Alceste.  I  cannot  think  of  it,  it  is  death  to  me,  and  the  over- 
throw of  all  creation  would  not  crush  me  like  this  terrible 
blow.  It  is  all  over  with  me  .  .  .  my  love  ...  I 
cannot  speak.- 

Eliante.  Try  to  calm  yourself  a  little ;  tell  me    .    .    . 

Alceste.  Ah,  just  Heaven !  can  the  odious  vices  of  the  basest  of 
minds  be  joined  to  such  beauty? 

Eliante.  But  pray,  what  can    .    .    . 

Alceste,  Ah !  all  is  over,  I  am  ...  I  am  betrayed  .  .  . 
I  feel  crushed;  Celimene — would  you  believe  it? — Celi- 
mene  is  faithless ;  Celimene  has  deceived  me ! 

Eliante.  Have  you  any  just  grounds  for  believing  it? 

Philinte.  Perhaps  you  are  too  hasty  in  your  suspicions,  and 
your  jealous  temper  sometimes  gives  rise  to  strange 
fancies    .    .    . 

Alceste.  Ah!  'sdeath,  sir!  mind  your  own  business.  [To 
Eliante:]  It  is  proof  enough  of  her  perfidy  to  have  here 
in  my  possession  a  letter  in  her  own  handwriting ;  a  letter 
to  Oronte,  which  has  put  before  my  eyes  in  a  moment  my 
disgrace  and  her  shame — Oronte,  whose  attentions  I 
thought  she  avoided,  and  of  all  my  rivals  I  feared  the  least. 

Philinte.  A  letter  may  sometimes  deceive,  and  not  be  so  guilty 
as  we  may  at  first  judge  from  appearances. 

Alceste.  Once  more,  sir,  leave  me  alone,  pray,  and  trouble 
yourself  about  your  own  affairs. 

Eliante.  You  must  moderate  your  sorrow,  and  the  in- 
sult   .    .    . 

Alceste.  Let  this  be  your  share,  madam.  To  you  I  have  now 
recourse ;  it  is  you  alone  who  can  comfort  me  in  this  my 
cruel  sorrow.  Avenge  me  on  an  ungrateful  and  deceitful 
relative,  who  basely  betrays  such  constant  love ;  avenge  me 
for  this  injury,  which  must  seem  hateful  to  you. 

Eliante.  I  avenge  you !    But  how  ? 


jo8  MOLIERE 

Alceste.  By  accepting  my  love.  Take  possession  of  my  heart ; 
it  is  only  thus  that  I  can  revenge  myself  upon  her.  I  shall 
punish  her  by  making  her  a  witness  of  my  sincere  attach- 
ment, of  my  profound  love,  of  the  respectful  cares,  earnest 
devotion,  and  constant  attentions  which  my  heart  will 
henceforth  offer  to  none  but  you. 

Eliante.  I  sympathize  deeply  with  you  in  your  suffering,  and  I 
do  not  despise  the  love  you  offer  me ;  still,  the  wrong  may 
not  be  so  great  as  you  imagine,  and  you  may  wish  to  re- 
call this  desire  for  revenge.  When  the  injury  proceeds  from 
one  whom  we  really  love,  we  indulge  at  first  in  many 
schemes  which  are  soon  forgotten.  In  vain  do  we  see 
powerful  reasons  to  break  off  the  engagement;  a  guilty 
charmer  is  soon  thought  innocent,  and  all  the  harm  we 
wished  her,  easily  vanishes.  Everyone  knows  what  is  the 
anger  of  a  lover. 

Alceste.  No,  no,  madam,  no !  the  offence  is  too  great ;  I  cannot 
relent,  and  I  must  part  from  her.  Nothing  could  now 
change  the  resolution  I  have  taken,  and  I  should  think  my- 
self base  if  ever  I  were  to  love  her  again.  But  she  comes. 
My  indignation  increases  at  her  approach.  I  will  taunt  her 
with  her  perversity,  confound  her  with  my  words,  and  after 
that  bring  to  you  a  heart  free  from  her  deceitful  charms. 


Scene  III. 

Celimene,  Alceste 

Alceste.  O  Heaven!  may  I  control  my  just  anger! 
Celimene    [aside].  Ah!     [To   Alceste.]  What    is    this   new 

trouble  I  see  you  in  ?  what  mean  those  deep  sighs  and  those 

dark  looks  you  cast  upon  me  ? 
Alceste.  That  all  the  wickedness  a  soul  is  capable  of  can  in 

nothing  be  compared  to  your  perfidy ;  that  fate,  devils,  and 

incensed  Heaven  never  produced  anything  so  worthless  as 

yourself. 
Celimene.  These  are  pretty  speeches,  which  I  certainly  admire. 
Alceste,  Ah!  no  more  jesting;  this  is  not  a  time  for  laughter. 

Rather  let  the  blush  of  shame  cover  your  face;  you  have 

cause,  for  your  treachery  is  known.    So  the  presentiments 


THE    MISANTHROPE 


309 


of  my  heart  were  true ;  its  alarms  were  but  too  well  found- 
edj  and  those  frequent  suspicions  which  were  thought 
odious  were  true  guides  to  what  my  eyes  have  now  seen. 
Yes,  in  spite  of  all  your  skill  in  dissimulation,  Heaven  hinted 
to  me  what  I  had  to  fear.  But  do  not  think  that  I  shall  bear 
this  insult  unavenged.  I  know  that  it  is  not  in  our  power 
to  govern  our  inclinations  ;  that  love  is  always  spontaneous ; 
that  we  cannot  enter  a  heart  by  force,  and  that  every  heart 
is  free  to  name  its  conqueror.  I  would  not  complain,  there- 
fore, if  you  had  from  the  first  spoken  to  me  without  dis- 
sembling ;  for,  although  you  would  have  crushed  within  me 
the  very  springs  of  my  life,  I  should  have  blamed  my  fate 
alone  for  it.  But  to  think  that  my  love  was  encouraged  by 
you !  It  is  such  a  treacherous,  such  a  perfidious  action, 
that  no  punishment  seems  too  great  for  it.  After  such  an 
outrage,  fear  everything  from  me ;  I  am  no  longer  master 
of  myself  ;  anger  has  conquered  me.  Pierced  to  the  heart  by 
the  cruel  blow  with  which  you  kill  me,  my  senses  are  not 
overswayed  by  reason ;  I  yield  myself  up  to  a  just  revenge, 
and  I  cannot  answer  for  what  I  may  do. 

Celimene.  What  can  have  called  forth  such  an  insult?  Have 
you  lost  all  sense  and  judgment  ?    Pray  speak ! 

Alceste.  Yes,  when  on  seeing  you  I  drank  in  the  poison  which 
is  killing  me ;  yes,  when  like  a  fool  I  thought  I  had  found 
some  sincerity  in  those  treacherous  charms  that  have  de- 
ceived me. 

Celimene.  Of  what  treachery  are  you  complaining? 

Alceste.  Ah !  false  heart,  how  well  you  feign  ignorance !  But 
I  will  leave  you  no  loophole  of  escape !  Look  at  your  own 
handwriting ;  this  letter  is  sufficient  to  confound  you ; 
against  such  evidence  you  can  have  nothing  to  answer. 

Celimene.  So  this  is  the  cause  of  your  strange  outburst. 

Alceste.  And  you  do  not  blush  at  the  sight  ? 

Celimene.  There  is  no  occasion  for  me  to  blush. 

Alceste.  What!  will  you  add  audacity  to  your  deceit?  Will 
you  disown  this  letter  because  it  is  not  signed  ? 

Celimene.  Why  should  I  disown  it,  when  it  is  mine  ? 

Alceste.  And  you  can  look  at  it  without  being  ashamed  of  the 
crime  of  which  it  shows  you  to  be  guilty  towards  me  ? 

Celimene.  You  are,  in  truth,  a  most  foolish  man. 


310  MOLIERE 

Alceste.  What !  you  face  thus  calmly  this  all-convincing  proof? 
And  the  tenderness  you  show  in  it  for  Oronte,  has  it  noth- 
ing that  can  outrage  me  or  shame  you  ? 

Celimene.  Oronte!  who  told  you  that  this  letter  is  for  him? 

Alceste.  Those  who,  to-day,  put  it  in  my  hands.  But  sup- 
pose I  grant  that  it  is  for  another,  have  I  less  cause  to  com- 
plain ?  and  would  you  be,  in  fact,  less  guilty  towards  me  ? 

Celimene.  But  if  the  letter  was  written  to  a  woman,  in  what 
can  it  hurt  you,  and  what  guilt  is  there  in  it  ? 

Alceste.  Ah !  the  evasion  is  excellent,  and  the  excuse  ad- 
mirable! I  must  acknowledge  that  I  did  not  expect  such 
deceit,  and  I  am  now  altogether  convinced.  What !  do  you 
dare  to  have  recourse  to  such  base  tricks?  Do  you  think 
people  entirely  devoid  of  understanding  ?  Show  me  a  little 
in  what  way  you  can  maintain  such  a  palpable  falsehood, 
and  how  you  can  apply  to  a  woman  all  the  words  which  in 
this  letter  convey  so  much  tenderness.  In  order  to  cover 
your  infidelity,  reconcile  if  you  can  what  I  am  going  to 
read  to    .    .    . 

Celimene.  No,  I  will  not.  What  right  have  you  to  assume 
such  authority,  and  to  dare  to  tell  me  such  things  to  my 
face? 

Alceste.  No,  no,  instead  of  giving  way  to  anger,  try  to  ex- 
plain to  me  the  expressions  you  use  here. 

Celimene.  I  shall  do  nothing  of  the  kind,  and  what  you  think 
on  the  subject  matters  very  little  to  me. 

Alceste.  For  pity's  sake,  show  me,  and  I  shall  be  satisfied,  that 
this  letter  can  be  explained  to  be  meant  for  a  woman. 

Celimene.  It  is  for  Oronte ;  there !  and  I  will  have  you  believe 
it.  I  receive  all  his  attentions  gladly.  I  admire  what  he 
says;  I  like  his  person,  and  I  admit  whatever  you  please. 
Do  as  you  like,  take  your  own  course,  let  nothing  stop  you, 
and  annoy  me  no  more. 

Alceste  [aside],  O  heavens!  can  anything  more  cruel  be  in- 
vented; and  was  ever  a  heart  treated  in  such  a  manner? 
What!  I  am  justly  incensed  against  her,  I  come  to  com- 
plain, and  I  must  bear  the  blame !  She  excites  my  grief  and 
my  suspicion  to  the  utmost.  She  wishes  me  to  believe 
everything,  she  boasts  of  everything;  and  yet  my  heart  is 
cowardly  enough  not  to  break  the  bonds  that  bind  it,  cow- 


THE   MISANTHROPE  311 

ardly  enough  not  to  arm  itself  with  deserved  contempt  for 
the  cruel  one  it,  alas!  loves  too  much.  [To  Celimhie.] 
Ah !  faithless  woman,  you  well  know  how  to  take  advan- 
tage of  my  weakness,  and  to  make  the  deep  yearning  love 
I  have  for  you  serve  your  own  ends.  Clear  yourself  at  least 
of  a  crime  which  overwhelms  me  with  grief,  and  cease  to 
affect  to  be  guilty  towards  me.  Show  me,  if  you  can,  that 
this  letter  is  innocent ;  strive  to  appear  faithful  to  me,  and 
I  will  strive  to  believe  you. 

Celimene.  Believe  me,  you  forget  yourself  in  your  jealous  fits, 
and  you  do  not  deserve  all  the  love  I  feel  for  you.  I  should 
like  to  know  what  could  compel  me  to  condescend  to  the 
baseness  of  dissembling  with  you ;  and  why,  if  my  heart 
were  engaged  to  another,  I  should  not  frankly  tell  you  so. 
What !  does  not  the  kind  assurance  of  my  feelings  towards 
you,  plead  my  defence  against  all  your  suspicions?  Have 
they  any  weight  before  such  a  pledge?  Do  you  not  insult 
me  when  you  give  way  to  them  ?  And  since  it  requires  so 
great  an  effort  for  us  to  speak  our  love ;  since  the  honor  of 
our  sex,  that  enemy  to  love,  so  strictly  forbids  such  a  con- 
fession, should  the  lover  who  sees  us  for  his  sake  conquer 
such  obstacles,  think  lightly  of  that  testimony,  and  go  un» 
punished  ?  Is  he  not  to  blame  if  he  does  not  trust  what  we 
have  confessed  with  so  much  reluctance?  Indeed,  my  in- 
dignation should  be  the  reward  of  such  doubts,  and  you  do 
not  deserve  that  I  should  care  for  you.  I  am  very  foolish, 
and  am  vexed  at  my  own  folly  for  still  retaining  any  good- 
will towards  you.  I  ought  to  place  my  affections  else- 
where, and  thus  give  you  just  excuse  for  complaint. 

Alceste.  Ah,  faithless  woman !  How  wonderful  is  my  weak- 
ness for  you !  You  deceive  me,  no  doubt,  with  such  en- 
dearing words.  But  let  it  be ;  I  must  submit  to  my  destiny ; 
I  give  myself  heart  and  soul  to  you.  I  trust  you.  I  will  to 
the  end  see  what  your  heart  will  prove  to  be,  and  if  it  can  be 
cruel  enough  to  deceive  me. 

Celimene.  No  ;  you  do  not  love  me  as  you  ought  to  love. 

Alceste.  Ah !  nothing  can  be  compared  with  my  exceeding 
great  love ;  and  in  my  anxiety  to  make  the  whole  world  a 
witness  to  it,  I  even  go  so  far  as  to  form  wishes  against  you. 
Yes,  I  could  wish  that  no  one  thought  you  charming ;  that 


3„  MOLIERE 

you  were  reduced  to  a  humbler  lot ;  that  Heaven,  at  your 
birth,  had  bestowed  nothing  upon  you  ;  that  you  had  neither 
rank,  high  birth,  nor  wealth,  so  that  my  heart  in  offering 
itself,  might  make  up  for  the  injustice  of  such  a  fate,  and 
that  I  might  have  both  the  happiness  and  the  glory  on  that 
day  of  seeing  you  owe  everything  to  my  love. 
Celimene.  This  is  wishing  me  well  after  a  strange  sort.  May 
Heaven  spare  me  from  your  ever  having  an  opportunity 
.    .    .    But  here  comes  Mr.  Dubois  in  strange  attire. 


Scene  IV. 

Celimene,  Alceste,  Dubois 

Alceste.  What  means  this  costume,  and  your  frightened  look? 

What  is  the  matter  with  you? 
Dubois.  Sir    .    .    . 
Alceste.  Well? 

Dubois.  We  have  seen  strange  things  to-day. 
Alceste.  What  do  you  mean  ? 
Dubois.  Our  affairs,  sir,  are  in  a  bad  way. 
Alceste.  What? 
Dubois.  Shall  I  speak  out? 
Alceste.  Yes ;  and  quickly. 
Dubois.  Is  there  nobody  here? 
Alceste.  Ah!    What  trifling!    Will  you  speak? 
Dubois.  Sir,  we  must  march  off. 
Alceste.  What  do  you  say  ? 
Dubois.  We  must  decamp  without  beat  of  drum. 
Alceste.  But  why? 

Dubois.  I  tell  you  that  we  must  leave  this  place. 
Alceste.  The  reason  ? 

Dubois.  We  must  go,  sir ;  without  taking  leave. 
Alceste.  But  what  is  the  meaning  of  all  this  rubbish  ? 
Dubois.  The  meaning  is,  sir,  that  we  must  pack  and  be  off. 
Alceste.  Ah !    I  shall  certainly  break  your  head  for  you,  rascal, 

if  you  are  not  quick  in  explaining  yourself. 
Dubois.  Sir,  a  man  with  black  coat  and  looks  came  right  into 

the  kitchen  to  leave  with  us  a  paper  all  scribbled  over  in 

such  a  fashion,  that  one  need  be  more  cunning  than  a  demon 


THE   MISANTHROPE  313 

to  make  it  out.  It  is  about  your  lawsuit,  I  feel  sure;  but 
even  Beelzebub  could  not  make  out  a  word  of  it. 

Alceste.  Well !  and  what  has  the  paper  to  do  with  the  going 
away  you  come  here  to  speak  of,  you  rascal  ? 

Dubois.  I  must  tell  you,  sir,  that  about  an  hour  afterwards,  a 
gentle.nan  who  often  comes  to  see  you,  came  to  ask  for  you 
all  in  a  kind  of  tremor,  and  not  finding  you  at  home,  he  told 
me  softly — for  he  knows  that  I  am  a  very  faithful  servant 
to  you,  sir — to  let  you  know  .  .  .  Wait  a  moment ;  what 
can  possibly  be  his  name  ? 

Alceste.  Never  mind  his  name,  you  stupid  fellow,  and  tell  me 
what  he  said. 

Dubois.  In  short,  he  is  one  of  your  friends,  and  that  is  suffi- 
cient. He  told  me  that  you  must  go  away  from  here  for 
your  very  life,  and  that  you  are  threatened  with  being  ar- 
rested. 

Alceste.  What !    Did  he  not  tell  you  anything  more  definite  ? 

Dubois.  No.  He  asked  me  for  some  paper  and  ink,  and  wrote 
a  line  or  two  which  may  let  you  into  the  depths  of  this 
mystery. 

Alceste.  Give  it  me,  then. 

Celimene.  What  can  all  this  mean? 

Alceste.  I  really  don't  know ;  but  I  should  like  to  have  it  ex- 
plained to  me.  [To  Dtibois.]  Will  you  soon  have  done, 
you  scoundrel  ? 

Dubois  [after  having  fumbled  about  for  the  note].  Faith, 
sir,  I  must  have  left  it  on  your  table. 

Alceste.  I  do  not  know  what  keeps  me  from    .    .    . 

Celimene.  Do  not  get  angry;  but  go  and  try  to  unravel  all 
this. 

Alceste.  It  seems  that  whatever  I  may  do,  fate  has  sworn  to 
prevent  me  from  having  any  conversation  with  you.  But 
to  triumph  over  it,  allow  me  in  my  ardent  love  to  see  you 
once  more  before  the  day  is  ended. 


314  MOLIERE 

ACT   FIFTH 

Scene  I. 

Alceste,  Philinte 

Alceste.  It  is  of  no  use ;  my  resolution  is  taken. 

Philinte,  But,  however  terrible  this  blow  may  be  to  you,  must 
it  force  you  to    .    .    . 

Alceste.  No,  you  labor  in  vain,  and  in  vain  try  to  argue.  Noth- 
ing can  now  deter  me  from  my  project ;  too  much  perversity 
reigns  in  our  age,  and  I  am  resolved  to  avoid  in  future  all 
intercourse  with  men.  What!  everyone  sees  that  honor, 
probity,  decency,  and  the  laws  are  all  against  my  adversary, 
men  publish  the  justice  of  my  cause,  and  my  mind  trusts  to 
the  certainty  of  my  right !  Yet  in  the  end  I  am  defeated !  I 
have  justice  on  my  side,  and  I  lose  my  cause !  A  miserable 
scoundrel,  whose  shameful  history  everyone  knows,  comes 
off  triumphantly,  thanks  to  the  blackest  falsehood!  All 
good  faith  yields  to  his  perfidy!  He  cuts  my  throat  and 
proves  that  he  is  right.  The  weight  of  his  mean,  hypocriti- 
cal grimace  is  thrown  into  the  balance,  and  justice  kicks  the 
beam.  He  gets  a  decree  of  court  to  crown  his  infamy ;  and 
not  satisfied  with  the  injury  done  to  me,  as  there  circulates 
in  the  world  an  abominable  book,  the  mere  reading  of  which 
would  be  blamable,  and  which  deserves  the  strictest  sup- 
pression, the  paltry  scoundrel  has  the  impudence  to  pro- 
claim me  the  author !  *  Upon  which  Oronte  is  seen  to  mut- 
ter, and  basely  endeavors  to  support  the  calumny  I  Oronte, 
who  is  said  at  Court  to  be  an  honorable  man,  and  to  whom 
I  have  done  no  other  wrong  than  to  have  told  him  the  honest 
truth.  Oronte,  who  comes  to  me  in  spite  of  myself,  eagerly 
to  ask  my  opinion  on  verses  of  his  making ;  and  because  I 
speak  to  him  frankly,  and  betray  neither  him  nor  the  truth, 
he  helps  to  crush  me  with  an  imaginary  crime !  He  be- 
comes my  greatest  enemy,  and  will  never  forgive  me,  be- 
cause, forsooth !  I  could  not  find  his  sonnet  good.    'Sdeath ! 

•  The    first    three    Acts   of    "  Le    Tar-  unworthy    means    to    try    and    stop    it 

tuflFe  "  had  been  acted  before  the  Court,  They  accused  Moliere  of  being  the  au- 

and    had    exasperated    the    enemies    of  thor   of   an   infamous   libel  then   circu- 

Moliere;  they  had  recourse  to  the  most  luting  in  Paris. 


THE   MISANTHROPE  315 

and  men  are  made  thus!  It  is  to  such  actions  that  glory 
leads  them !  This  is  the  good  faith,  virtuous  zeal,  justice, 
and  honor  we  find  among  them !  No,  it  is  too  much  to  en- 
dure all  the  sorrows  their  malice  can  devise  against  us;  I 
will  escape  out  of  this  wood,  out  of  this  cut-throat  place ; 
and  since  men  behave  like  wolves  to  each  other,  the  traitors 
shall  never  have  me  among  them  so  long  as  I  am  alive. 

Philinte.  I  still  think  that  you  are  rather  hasty  in  your  decis- 
ion, and  the  harm  is  not  so  great  as  you  make  out.  What 
your  adversary  dares  to  impute  to  you  has  not  been  credited 
sufficiently  for  you  to  be  arrested.  His  false  report  is  fall- 
ing of  itself ;  and  it  is  an  action  which  well  may  turn  against 
him. 

Alceste.  Turn  against  him !  He  does  not  fear  the  odium  at- 
tached to  such  practices ;  he  has  a  license  to  be  an  open  vil- 
lain, and  far  from  injuring  his  position,  the  event  will  only 
put  him  to-morrow  on  a  more  solid  footing  than  ever. 

Philinte.  Anyhow,  it  13  evident  that  little  attention  has  been 
paid  to  the  report  his  malice  spread  against  you ;  you  have 
nothing  to  fear  on  that  head,  and  as  for  your  lawsuit,  of 
which  you  have  a  right  to  complain,  it  will  be  easy  for  you 
to  appeal  against  the  judgment. 

Alceste.  No,  I  will  abide  by  it.  However  great  the  injury 
that  such  a  verdict  may  do  me,  I  will  take  good  care  it  is  not 
reversed.  We  see  too  plainly  how  right  is  abused,  and  I 
wish  it  to  go  down  to  posterity  as  a  most  striking  sign  of 
the  times,  and  as  an  unmistakable  proof  of  the  wickedness 
of  the  men  of  our  days.  It  is  true  that  it  may  cost  me  some 
twenty  thousand  francs ;  but  for  twenty  thousand  francs  I 
shall  have  the  right  to  protest  against  the  iniquity  of  man- 
kind, and  to  nourish  for  it  an  undying  hatred. 

Philinte,  But  in  short    .    .    . 

Alceste.  But  in  short,  your  trouble  is  thrown  away.  What  can 
you  say  to  me  on  that  head?  Will  you  have  the  boldness 
to  excuse  before  me  the  atrocious  shame  of  all  that  is  hap- 
pening? 

Philinte.  No,  I  agree  to  all  you  please ;  everything  goes  on  by 
intrigue  and  self-interest.  It  is  cabal  and  cunning  which 
carry  the  day,  and  men  should  act  differently.  But  is  their 
want  of  equity  a  sufficient  reason  for  you  to  withdraw  from 


3i6 


MOLIERE 


their  society?  All  these  human  failings  give  us  opportu- 
nities of  exercising  our  philosophy.  It  is  the  noblest  use  we 
can  make  of  virtue :  and  if  probity  reigned  everywhere ;  if 
all  hearts  were  open,  just,  and  tractable,  most  of  our  vir- 
tues would  be  useless  to  us :  for  we  employ  them  to  bear  as 
well  as  we  can  with  the  injustice  of  others  in  our  righteous 
cause ;  as  it  is  for  a  true  and  virtuous  heart  to    .    .    . 

Alceste.  I  know  that  you  speak  wonderfully  well,  and  that  you 
are  never  wanting  in  fine  reasoning;  but  you  are  wasting 
your  time  and  all  your  noble  speeches.  Reason  tells  me 
that  it  is  for  my  own  good  that  I  should  retire.  I  have  not 
power  enough  over  my  tongue,  I  could  not  answer  for  what 
I  might  say,  and  I  should  bring  a  thousand  troubles  upon 
my  own  head.  Leave  me  here  without  any  more  words,  to 
\\ait  for  Celimene.  She  will  have  to  consent  to  the  project 
which  I  have  determined  upon.  I  must,  in  short,  see 
whether  or  not  her  heart  feels  any  love  for  me,  and  I  must 
now  forever  be  convinced  of  it. 

Philinte.  Let  us  go  up  to  Eliante  and  wait  for  her  there. 

Alceste.  No,  my  mind  is  too  much  agitated ;  go  and  see  her 
yourself,  and  leave  me,  I  beg  of  you,  in  this  dark  cornei* 
alone  with  my  gloomy  sorrow. 

Philinte.  Strange  company  to  help  one  to  wait.  I  will  ask 
Eliante  to  come  down.  [Ejvit. 

Scene  II. 

Celimene,  Oronte,  Alceste 

Oronte.  Yes,  madam,  you  are  to  consider  whether  by  ties  so 
sweet  I  am  to  be  forever  yours.  I  must  have  a  decided  an- 
swer as  to  your  feelings  for  me.  A  lover  cannot  tolerate 
any  ambiguity  on  such  a  point.  If  my  ardent  affection  has 
really  touched  your  heart,  you  ought  not  to  hesitate  to  tell 
me  so ;  and  after  all,  the  proof  I  ask  from  you  is  only  the 
wish  that  Alceste  should,  henceforth,  no  more  pretend  to 
your  hand,  that  you  should  entirely  give  him  up,  and,  in 
short,  forbid  him  your  house  forever. 

Celimene.  But  what  can  make  you  so  angry  with  him?  you 
whom  I  have  heard  speak  so  highly  of  him  ? 


THE   MISANTHROPE  317 

Oronte.  Madam,  there  is  no  need  of  these  explanations ;  I 
only  wish  to  know  what  your  feelings  are.  Choose  the  one 
or  the  other ;  I  am  only  waiting  for  your  decision. 

Alceste  [stepping  forth].  Yes,  this  gentleman  is  right, 
madam,  and  you  must  choose;  and  his  request  entirely 
agrees  with  mine.  The  same  impatience  urges  me,  and  the 
same  anxiety  brings  me  here.  My  love  desires  to  receive 
from  you  an  undoubted  proof ;  the  matter  can  be  delayed 
no  longer;  the  time  has  come  for  you  to  explain  your 
feelings. 

Oronte.  I  have  no  wish,  sir,  that  an  importunate  love  should 
in  any  way  interfere  with  your  good  fortune. 

Alceste.  Sir,  I  do  not  wish,  jealous  or  not  jealous,  to  share  her 
heart  in  anything  with  you. 

Oronte.  If  she  can  prefer  your  love  to  mine    .    .    . 

Alceste.  If  she  possibly  can  have  the  least  inclination  for 
you    .    .    . 

Oronte.  I  swear  to  pretend  no  more  to  her. 

Alceste.  And  I  emphatically  swear  no  more  to  set  eyes  upon 
her. 

Oronte.  Madam,  it  remains  with  you  to  speak  without  hesita- 
tion. 

Alceste.  Madam,  you  can  explain  yourself  without  fear. 

Oronte.  You  have  only  to  say  which  way  your  preference  in- 
clines. 

Alceste.  You  have  nothing  to  do  but  to  cut  matters  short  and 
to  choose  between  us. 

Oronte.  What !  you  seem  to  find  such  a  choice  difficult ! 

Alceste.  What !  you  hesitate  and  appear  undecided ! 

Celimene,  Gracious  heavens!  how  importunate  this  persist- 
ence is,  and  how  unreasonable  you  both  are;  my  mind  is 
made  up,  and  my  heart  does  not  waver ;  it  does  not  hesitate 
between  you.  Nothing  is  more  easily  decided  than  the 
choice  love  makes.  But  I  feel  great  repugnance  to  make  a 
declaration  of  this  kind  before  you  both.  I  think  that  dis- 
obliging words  should  not  be  spoken  in  the  presence  of  wit- 
nesses, that  our  heart  gives  enough  tokens  of  its  inclination 
without  our  being  forced  to  an  open  quarrel  with  everyone, 
and  that,  in  short,  a  lover  should  be  given  more  gentle  evi- 
dence of  the  ill-success  of  his  attentions. 


3i8  MOLIERE 

Oronte.  Not  so,  not  so ;  I  fear  nothing  from  a  frank  avowal ; 
on  the  contrary,  as  far  as  I  am  concerned,  I  wish  for  it. 

Alceste.  And  I  demand  it.  It  is  an  open  declaration  that  I  es- 
pecially claim.  I  will  not  have  any  half  measures.  Your 
great  study  is  how  you  can  keep  friends  with  everybody. 
But  let  us  have  no  trifling,  no  more  uncertainty ;  you  must 
explain  yourself  openly,  or  else  I  shall  take  your  refusal 
itself  for  a  decision.  I  shall  know,  for  my  part,  how  to  in- 
terpret your  silence,  and  by  it  I  shall  understand  the  worst. 

Oronte.  I  am  obliged  to  you,  sir,  for  this  anger,  and  I  repeat  all 
that  you  have  said. 

CeuImene.  How  you  weary  me  with  this  caprice !  Is  there  any 
common  justice  in  what  you  ask  of  me?  Have  I  not  told 
you  what  motive  restrains  me  .  .  .  ?  But  Eliante  is 
coming;  she  shall  judge. 


Scene  III. 

Eliante,  Philinte,  Celimene,  Oronte,  Alceste 

Celimene.  You  see  me  here,  cousin,  persecuted  by  people  who 
seem  to  have  arranged  their  plans  beforehand.  Both,  with 
the  same  peremptoriness,  ask  that  I  should  declare  the 
choice  my  heart  has  made ;  and  that  by  a  decision  to  be  pro- 
nounced before  them,  I  should  forbid  one  of  the  two  to 
continue  his  attentions.  Tell  me  if  such  things  are  ever 
done? 

Eliante.  Do  not  consult  me  upon  such  a  matter ;  you  may  ad- 
dress yourself  to  the  wrong  person,  and  I  am  decidedly  for 
those  who  speak  their  mind  openly. 

Oronte.  Madam,  it  is  in  vain  for  you  to  excuse  yourself. 

Alceste.  All  your  evasions  will  be  but  ill  seconded  here. 

Oronte,  You  must  speak  and  decide. 

Alceste.  You  need  only  continue  to  be  silent. 

Oronte.  One  word  will  be  sufficient. 

Alceste.  And  I  understand  you  even  if  you  do  not  speak  at  all. 


THE   MISANTHROPE  3x9 

Scene  IV. 

Arsinoe,  Celimene,  Eliante,  Acaste,  Philinte,  Clitandre,  Oronte 

AcASTE  [to  Celimene].  Madam,  we  come,  with  your  permis- 
sion, to  try  and  clear  up  a  certain  trifling  matter. 

Clitandre  [to  Oronte  and  Alceste].  You  are  right  welcome 
here,  gentlemen,  for  you  also  are  concerned  in  this  busi- 
ness. 

Arsinoe  [to  Celimene].  You  are  no  doubt  surprised,  madam, 
to  see  me  here,  but  these  gentlemen  are  the  cause  of  my 
presence.  They  both  came  to  see  me,  and  both  complained 
of  a  want  of  faith  which  I  cannot  believe  you  to  be  guilty  of. 
I  have  too  high  an  opinion  of  you ;  my  eyes  even  refused  to 
be  convinced  by  the  strongest  proofs  they  showed  me ;  and 
in  my  friendship,  forgetful  of  the  little  misunderstanding 
we  have  had,  I  readily  complied  with  their  wish  to  come 
here  with  them,  in  order  to  see  you  clear  yourself  from  such 
calumny. 

Acaste.  Yes,  madam,  let  us  see  with  all  due  calmness  how  you 
will  manage  to  explain  the  matter.  This  letter  was  written 
by  you  to  Clitandre. 

Clitandre.  And  you  wrote  this  affectionate  note  to  Acaste. 

Acaste  [to  Oronte  and  Alceste].  Gentlemen,  this  writing  can- 
not be  altogether  unknown  to  you.  I  greatly  fear,  on  the 
contrary,  that  her  kindness  has  only  too  well  acquainted  you 
with  her  handwriting;    still  this  is  worth  reading. 

Acaste  reads 

"  You  are  a  strange  man  to  reprove  my  playfulness,  and 
to  reproach  me  with  never  being  so  merry  as  when  I  am  not 
with  you.  There  is  nothing  more  unjust,  and  if  you  do  not 
come  at  once  and  ask  my  pardon  for  this  offence,  I  will 
never  forgive  you  as  long  as  I  live.  Our  big  gawky  of  a 
viscount  " — he  should  have  been  here — "  Our  big  gawky 
of  a  viscount,  with  whom  you  begin  your  complaints,  is  a 
man  who  could  never  please  me ;  and  since  the  day  that  I 
VI  atched  him  spitting  in  a  well  for  full  three-quarters  of 
a    hour,  to  make  circles  in  the  water,  I  have  never  been  able 


320  MOLIERE 

to  have  a  good  opinion  of  him.  As  for  the  little  marquis  " 
— myself,  gentlemen,  let  it  be  said  without  vanity — "  As  for 
the  little  marquis  who  held  my  hand  so  long  yesterday,  I 
think  there  is  nothing  so  trivial  as  his  whole  person,  and  he 
is  one  of  those  men  who  have  no  other  merit  than  what  their 
tailor  brings  them.  As  for  the  man  with  the  green  rib- 
bons " — [to  Alceste]  your  turn  now,  sir — "  As  for  the  man 
with  the  green  ribbons,  he  amuses  me  sometimes  with  his 
bluntness  and  his  irascible  peevishness,  but  there  are  a 
thousand  occasions  when  I  think  him  the  greatest  bore  in 
the  world.  As  for  the  sonnet-maker" — [to  Oronte]  now 
for  your  share,  sir — '*  As  for  the  sonnet-maker,  who  wants 
to  pass  for  a  clever  wit,  and  will  be  an  author  in  spite  of 
everybody,  I  cannot  even  take  the  trouble  of  listening  to 
what  he  says,  and  his  prose  is  to  me  as  bad  as  his  verse. 
Understand,  therefore,  that  I  am  not  always  as  much  enter- 
tained as  you  imagine ;  that  I  miss  you  more  than  I  should 
care  to  say  in  all  the  entertainments  to  which  I  am  forced 
to  go,  and  that  there  is  nothing  like  the  society  of  those  we 
love  to  enhance  all  kind  of  pleasure." 

Clitandre.  Now  it's  my  turn  [reads]  :  "  Your  Clitandre  of 
whom  you  talk  to  me,  and  who  affects  such  sweet  manners, 
is  the  last  man  for  whom  I  could  feel  any  friendship.  He 
is  absurd  enough  to  fancy  that  I  love  him,  and  you  your- 
self are  absurd  to  think  that  I  do  not  love  you.  If  you  wish 
to  be  right,  change  feelings  with  him  and  come  and  see  me 
as  often  as  you  possibly  can,  to  lighten  for  me  the  misery 
of  being  persecuted  by  his  presence."  We  see  here  the 
model  of  a  fine  character,  madam ;  you  know,  no  doubt, 
what  name  it  deserves.  It  is  enough ;  we  shall  both  of  us 
go  and  publish  everywhere  this  noble  picture  of  your  heart. 

[Exit. 

AcASTE.  I  too  could  say  something  worth  hearing,  but  I  do  not 
hold  you  worthy  of  my  anger,  and  I  will  show  you  that  little 
marquises  can  comfort  themselves  with  nobler  hearts  than 
yours.  [Exit. 


THE   MISANTHROPE 


331 


Scene  V. 

Celimene,  Eliante,  'Arsinoe,  Alceste,  Oronte,  Philinte 

Oronte.  What !  am  I  to  be  treated  in  such  a  fashion  after  all 
you  have  written  to  me  ?  and  does  your  heart,  with  all  the 
semblance  of  love,  promise  itself  by  turns  to  all  mankind  ? 
I  have  been  your  dupe  too  long,  and  I  will  be  so  no  longer. 
You  render  me  an  immense  service  in  making  me  know  you 
as  you  really  are.  All  the  affection  I  had  bestowed  upon 
you,  comes  back  to  me,  and  I  find  my  revenge  in  knowing 
what  you  lose.  [To  Alceste.^  Sir,  I  no  longer  oppose  your 
suit,  and  you  are  welcome  to  conclude  matters  with  this 
lady. 

Scene  VI. 

Celimene,  Eliante,  Arsinoe,  Alceste,  Philinte 

Arsinoe  [to  Celimene].  This  is  certainly,  madam,  the  basest 
action  that  I  have  ever  heard  of ;  I  can  be  silent  no  longer, 
so  grieved  do  I  feel.  Did  ever  anybody  hear  of  such  con- 
duct? I  do  not  enter  into  the  feelings  of  the  others,  but 
that  this  gentleman  [pointing  to  Alceste],  who  had  staked 
his  whole  happiness  upon  you — a  man  of  merit  and  honor, 
who  worshipped  you  with  idolatry — should  be    .    .    . 

Alceste.  Ah !  madam,  leave  to  me,  I  pray,  the  management  of 
my  own  business,  and  do  not  load  yourself  with  super- 
fluous cares.  It  is  in  vain  that  I  see  you  take  up  my  quar- 
rel, my  heart  would  not  reward  you  for  your  disinterested 
zeal ;  and  if  I  could  think  of  avenging  myself  by  another 
choice,  you  are  not  the  person  I  should  select. 
Arsinoe.  Do  you  indeed,  sir,  fancy  that  I  can  have  such  a 
thought,  and  that  I  can  be  so  desperately  eager  to  secure 
you?  That  you  have  entertained  such  a  thought  argues,  I 
fear,  that  you  have  no  small  opinion  of  yourself.  The  ref- 
use of  Celimene  is  a  merchandise  I  should  be  wrong  to 
prize.  Pray  be  undeceived,  and  do  not  carry  things  with  so 
high  a  hand.  People  like  me  are  not  for  such  as  you ;  you 
will  do  right  to  sigh  for  her  still,  and  I  long  to  see  so  charm- 
ing a  match  concluded.  [Exit, 


jaa  MOLIERE 


Scene  VII. 

Celim^ne,  Eliante,  Alceste,  Philinte 

Alceste  [to  Celimene].  Well,  I  have  heard  them  all,  and,  in 
spite  of  what  I  see,  I  have  kept  silent;  have  I  had  com- 
mand over  myself  long  enough,  and  may  I  now    .    .    .     ? 

Celimene.  Yes,  you  may  say  all  you  like ;  you  have  a  right  to 
complain  and  to  reproach  me  with  anything  you  please.  I 
confess  myself  in  the  wrong,  and  in  my  confusion  I  have 
no  wish  to  look  for  vain  excuses.  I  have  despised  the 
anger  of  the  others,  but  I  acknowledge  my  faithlessness 
towards  you  ;  your  resentment  is  just.  I  know  how  guilty 
I  must  seem  to  you,  and  that  everything  must  seem  to 
prove  my  fickleness ;  in  short,  that  you  have  cause  to  hate 
me.    Do  so,  I  submit. 

Alceste.  Can  I  cease  to  love  you?  Can  I  thus  forget  all  my 
tenderness  for  you?  I  wish  to  hate  you,  but  my  heart 
refuses  to  obey.  [To  Eliante  and  Philinte.]  See  to  what 
an  unworthy  love  can  lead;  be  both  of  you  witnesses  of 
my  infatuation.  But  this  is  not  all,  you  will  see  me  carry 
my  weakness  yet  further;  I  will  show  you  how  wrongly 
we  are  called  wise,  and  how  in  all  hearts  there  still  re- 
mains something  of  the  man.  [To  Celimhte.]  Yes,  faith- 
less woman,  I  willingly  forgive  you  all  my  wrongs;  I  will 
find  in  my  own  heart  an  excuse  for  all  your  actions,  and 
will  lay  the  blame  on  the  manners  of  the  age,  provided, 
however,  that  you  agree  to  the  resolution  I  have  taken. 
It  is  this:  you  will  henceforth  shun  all  intercourse  with 
mankind,  and  will  follow  me  without  delay  into  the  soli- 
tude where  I  have  vowed  to  live.  It  is  only  thus  that  you 
can  redeem  in  the  world's  opinion  the  mischief  your  letters 
have  done,  and  only  thus  that,  after  the  scandal  which  a 
noble  mind  must  abhor,  my  heart  will  still  be  able  to  love 
you. 

Celimene.  What!  renounce  the  world  before  I  grow  old,  go 
and  bury  myself  in  the  wilderness    .    .    . 

Alceste.  But  if  your  love  answers  to  mine,  what  can  be  to 
you  all  the  rest  of  the  world ;  are  not  all  your  desires  cen- 
tred in  me? 


THE   MISANTHROPE  323 

Celimene.  Solitude  at  twenty  years  of  age  frightens  me.  I 
do  not  find  in  my  heart  greatness  and  self-denial  enough 
to  yield  to  such  a  fate ;  if  the  gift  of  my  hand  can  satisfy 
your  wishes,  I  am  willing ;  and  marriage    .    .    . 

Alceste.  No.  Now  my  heart  loathes  you,  and  my  love  is  at 
an  end ;  since  you  cannot  in  me  find  your  all  in  all  as  I 
do  in  you,  go,  I  reject  you:  this  unworthy  insult  forever 
delivers  my  soul  from  the  thraldom  of  my  love. 

lExit  Celimene. 

Scene  VIII. 

Eliante,  Alceste,  Philinte 

Alceste  [to  Eliante],  Your  beauty,  madam,  is  adorned  by  a 
thousand  virtues,  and  it  is  only  in  you  that  I  have  seen 
sincerity  and  truth.  I  have  for  a  long  time  set  the  highest 
value  on  you,  but  allow  me  thus  only  to  esteem  you  for- 
ever. My  heart  is  afflicted  by  too  many  sorrows  for  me 
to  dare  to  ask  you  to  share  my  lot.  I  feel  too  unworthy 
of  you,  and  I  begin  to  understand  that  Heaven  has  not 
formed  me  for  such  happiness ;  that  it  would  be  doing 
you  an  unworthy  homage  to  offer  you  a  heart  refused  by 
another ;  in  short    .    .    . 

Eliante.  Do  not  make  yourself  anxious,  I  shall  find  no  diffi- 
culty in  bestowing  my  hand,  and  here  is  your  friend  who 
will  not  want  pressing  in  order  to  accept  it. 

Philinte.  Ah !  madam,  that  honor  is  my  only  ambition,  and 
I  could  sacrifice  for  it  my  soul,  my  life. 

Alceste.  May  you  always  experience  the  same  feelings  for 
each  other,  and  be  forever  happy!  As  to  myself,  betrayed 
on  all  sides,  and  crushed  with  injustice,  I  will  escape  from 
a  gulf  where  vice  triumphs,  and  look  in  all  the  earth  for 
a  desert  place  where  one  may  be  free  to  be  a  man  of 
honor.  {Exit. 

Philinte.  Come,  come,  madam,  let  us  exhaust  every  means  to 
prevent  him  from  putting  his  wild  scheme  into  execution. 


PHJEDRA 


BY 


JEAN-BAPTISTE    RACINE 

[Metrical  Translation  by  Robert  Bruce  Boswell] 


DRAMATIS    PERSONyE 

Theseus,  Son  of  JEgeus  and  King  of  Athens. 

Ph^dra,    Wife    of   Theseus    and    Daughter   of    Minos    and 

Pasiphae. 
HiPPOLYTus,   Son   of  Theseus   and   Antiope,    Queen   of   the 

Amazons. 
Aricia,  Princess  of  the  Blood  Royal  of  Athens. 
CEnone,  Nurse  of  Phaedra. 
Theramenes,  Tutor  of  Hippolytus. 
IsMENE,  bosom  friend  of  Aricia. 
Panope,  Waiting-woman  of  Phsedra. 

Guards. 


The  scene  is  laid  at  I'roezen,  a  town  of  the  Peloponnesus. 


PH.EDRA 

ACT  FIRST 
Scene  I. 

'Hippolytus,  Therameiies. 

HiPPOLYTUS. — My  mind  is  settled,  dear  Theramenes, 
And  I  can  stay  no  more  in  lovely  Troezen. 
In  doubt  that  racks  my  soul  with  mortal  anguish, 
I  grow  ashamed  of  such  long  idleness. 
Six  months  and  more  my  father  has  been  gone, 
And  what  may  have  befallen  one  so  dear 
I  know  not,  nor  what  corner  of  the  earth 
Hides  him. 

Theramenes. —       And  where,  prince,  will  you  look  for  him? 
Already,  to  content  your  just  alarm, 
Have  I  not  cross'd  the  seas  on  either  side 
Of  Corinth,  ask'd  if  aught  were  known  of  Theseus 
Where  Acheron  is  lost  among  the  Shades, 
Visited  Elis,  doubled  Toenarus, 
And  sail'd  into  the  sea  that  saw  the  fall 
Of  Icarus?    Inspired  with  what  new  hope. 
Under  what  favor'd  skies  think  you  to  trace 
His  footsteps  ?    Who  knows  if  the  King,  your  father, 
Wishes  the  secret  of  his  absence  known? 
Perchance,  while  we  are  trembling  for  his  life, 
The  hero  calmly  plots  some  fresh  intrigue, 
And  only  waits  till  the  deluded  fair — 

Hippolytus. — Cease,  dear  Theramenes,  respect  the  name 
Of  Theseus.    Youthful  errors  have  been  left 
Behind,  and  no  unworthy  obstacle 
Detains  him.    Phaedra  long  has  fix'd  a  heart 
Inconstant  once,  nor  need  she  fear  a  rival. 

^^"^  Classics.     Vol.  36—0 


328 


RACINE 


In  seeking  him  I  shall  but  do  my  duty, 

And  leave  a  place  I  dare  no  longer  see. 
Theramenes.— Indeed !    When,  prince,  did  you  begin  to  dread 

These  peaceful  haunts,  so  dear  to  happy  childhood, 

Where  I  have  seen  you  oft  prefer  to  stay, 

Rather  than  meet  the  tumult  and  the  pomp 

Of  Athens  and  the  court  ?    What  danger  shun  you, 

Or  shall  I  say  what  grief  ? 
HiPPOLYTUS.—  That  happy  time 

Is  gone,  and  all  is  changed,  since  to  these  shores 

The  gods  sent  Phaedra. 
Theramenes. —  I  perceive  the  cause 

Of  your  distress.    It  is  the  queen  whose  sight 

Ofifends  you.    With  a  step-dame's  spite  she  schemed 

Your  exile  soon  as  she  set  eyes  on  you. 

But  if  her  hatred  is  not  wholly  vanish'd. 

It  has  at  least  taken  a  milder  aspect. 

Besides,  what  danger  can  a  dying  woman, 

One  too  who  longs  for  death,  bring  on  your  head  ? 

Can  Phaedra,  sick'ning  of  a  dire  disease 

Of  which  she  will  not  speak,  weary  of  life 

And  of  herself,  form  any  plots  against  you? 
HiPPOLYTUS. — It  is  not  her  vain  enmity  I  fear : 

Another  foe  alarms  Hippolytus. 

I  fly,  it  must  be  own'd,  from  young  Arjcia,  _ 

The  sole  survivor  of  an  impious  race. 
Theramenes. — What !    You  become  her  persecutor  too ! 

The  gentle  sister  of  the  cruel  sons 

Of  Pallas  shared  not  in  their  perfidy  ; 

Why  should  you  hate  such  charming  innocence? 
HiPPOLYTUS. — I  should  not  need  to  fly,  if  it  were  hatred. 
Theramenes. — May  I  then  learn  the  meaning  of  your  flight? 

Is  this  the  proud  Hippolytus  I  see. 

Than  whom  there  breathed  no  fiercer  foe  to  love 

And  to  that  yoke  which  Theseus  has  so  oft 

Endured  ?    And  can  it  be  that  Venus,  scorn'd 

So  long,  will  justify  your  sire  at  last? 

Has  she,  then,  setting  you  with  other  mortals, 

Forced  e'en  Hippolytus  to  offer  incense 

Before  her  ?    Can  you  love  ? 


PHiEDRA  329 

HiPPOLYTus. —  Friend,  ask  me  not. 

You,  who  have  known  my  heart  from  infancy 
And  all  its  feelings  of  disdainful  pride, 
Spare  me  the  shame  of  disavowing  all 
That  I  profess'd.    Born  of  an  Amazon, 
The  wildness  that  you  wonder  at  I  suck'd 
With  mother's  milk.    When  come  to  riper  agCj^.., 
Reason  approved  what  Nature  had  implanted. 
Sincerely  bound  to  me  by  zealous  service, 
You  told  me  then  the  story  of  my  sire, 
And  know  how  oft,  attentive  to  your  voice, 
I  kindled  when  I  heard  his  noble  acts, 
As  you  described  him  bringing  consolation 
To  mortals  for  the  absence  of  Alcides, 
The  highways  clear'd  of  monsters  and  of  robbers, 
Procrustes,  Cercyon,  Sciro,  Sinnis  slain, 
The  Epidaurian  giant's  bones  dispersed, 
Crete  reeking  with  the  blood  of  Minotaur. 
But  when  you  told  me  of  less  glorious  deeds, 
Troth  plighted  here  and  there  and  everywhere, 
Young  Helen  stolen  from  her  home  at  Sparta, 
And  Periboea's  tears  in  Salamis, 
With  many  another  trusting  heart  deceived 
Whose  very  names  have  'scaped  his  memory, 
Forsaken  Ariadne  to  the  rocks 
Complaining  last,  this  Phaedra,  bound  to  him 
By  better  ties — you  know  with  what  regret 
I  heard  and  urged  you  to  cut  short  the  tale, 
Happy  had  I  been  able  to  erase 
From  my  remembrance  that  unworthy  part 
Of  such  a  splendid  record.    I,  in  turn, 
Am  I  too  made  the  slave  of  love,  and  brought 
To  stoop  so  low  ?    The  more  contemptible 
That  no  renown  is  mine  such  as  exalts 
The  name  of  Theseus,  that  no  monsters  quell'd 
Have  given  me  a  right  to  share  his  weakness. 
And  if  my  pride  of  heart  must  needs  be  humbled, 
Aricia  should  have  been  the  last  to  tame  it. 
Was  I  beside  myself  to  have  forgotten 
Eternal  barriers  of  separation 


33© 


RAQNE 


Between  us?    By  my  father's  stern  command 
Her  brethren's  blood  must  ne'er  be  reinforced 
By  sons  of  hers ;  he  dreads  a  single  shoot 
From  stock  so  guilty,  and  would  fain  with  her 
Bury  their  name,  that,  even  to  the  tomb 
Content  to  be  his  ward,  for  her  no  torch 
Of  Hymen  may  be  lit.    Shall  I  espouse 
Her  rights  against  my  sire,  rashly  provoke 
His  wrath,  and  launch  upon  a  mad  career — 

Theramenes. — The  gods,  dear   prince,  if   once  your  hour  is 
come, 
Care  little  for  the  reasons  that  should  guide  us. 
Wishing  to  shut  your  eyes,  Theseus  unseals  them ; 
His  hatred,  stirring  a  rebellious  flame 
Within  you,  lends  his  enemy  new  charms. 
And,  after  all,  why  should  a  guiltless  passion 
Alarm  you  ?    Dare  you  not  essay  its  sweetness, 
But  follow  rather  a  fastidious  scruple? 
Fear  you  to  stray  where  Hercules  has  wander'd  ? 
What  heart  so  stout  that  Venus  has  not  vanquish'd  ? 
Where  would  you  be  yourself,  so  long  her  foe, 
Had  your  own  mother,  constant  in  her  scorn 
Of  love,  ne'er  glowed  with  tenderness  for  Theseus? 
What  boots  it  to  affect  a  pride  you  feel  not  ? 
Confess  it,  all  is  changed  ;  for  some  time  past 
You  have  been  seldom  seen  with  wild  delight 
Urging  the  rapid  car  along  the  strand, 
Or,  skilful  in  the  art  that  Neptune  taught, 
Making  th'  unbroken  steed  obey  the  bit ; 
Less  often  have  the  woods  return'd  your  shouts; 
A  secret  burden  on  your  sprits  cast 
Has  dimm'd  your  eye.    How  can  I  doubt  you  love  ? 
Vainly  would  you  conceal  the  fatal  wound. 
Has  not  the  fair  Aricia  touch'd  your  heart? 

HiPPOLYTUS. — Theramenes,  I  go  to  find  my  father. 

Theramenes. — Will  you  not  see  the  queen  before  you  start. 
My  prince? 

HiPPOLYTUS. —  That  is  my  purpose :  you  can  tell  her. 

Yes,  I  will  see  her ;  duty  bids  me  do  it. 
But  what  new  ill  vexes  her  dear  CEnone  ? 


PH^DRA  331 

Scene  II. 

Hippolyttis,  CEnotte,  Theramenes. 

CEnone. — Alas,  my  lord,  what  grief  was  e'er  like  mine? 

The  queen  has  almost  touch'd  the  gates  of  death. 

Vainly  close  watch  I  keep  by  day  and  night, 

E'en  in  my  arms  a  secret  malady 

Slays  her,  and  all  her  senses  are  disorder'd. 

Weary  yet  restless  from  her  couch  she  rises, 

Pants  for  the  outer  air,  but  bids  me  see 

That  no  one  on  her  misery  intrudes. 

She  comes. 
HiPPOLYTUs. —         Enough.    She  shall  not  be  disturb'd, 

Nor  be  confronted  with  a  face  she  hates. 


Scene  III. 

Phcodra,  CEnotte. 

Ph^dra. — We  have  gone  far  enough.    Stay,  dear  CEnone ; 
Strength  fails  me,  and  I  needs  must  rest  awhile. 
My  eyes  are  dazzled  with  this  glaring  light 
So  long  unseen,  my  trembling  knees  refuse 
Support.    Ah  me! 

CEnone. —  Would  Heaven  that  our  tears 

Might  bring  relief ! 

Ph^dra. —  Ah,  how  these  cumbrous  gauds, 

These  veils  oppress  me !    What  officious  hand 
Has  tied  these  knots,  and  gather'd  o'er  my  brow 
These  clustering  coils  ?    How  all  conspires  to  add 
To  my  distress ! 

CEnone. —  What  is  one  moment  wish'd. 

The  next,  is  irksome.    Did  you  not  just  now. 
Sick  of  inaction,  bid  us  deck  you  out. 
And,  with  your  former  energy  recall'd, 
Desire  to  go  abroad,  and  see  the  light 
Of  day  once  more  ?    You  see  it,  and  would  fain 
Be  hidden  from  the  sunshine  that  you  sought. 

PHiEDRA.. — Thou  glorious  author  of  a  hapless  race, 


J32  RACINE 

Whose  daughter  'twas  my  mother's  boast  to  be, 
Who  well  may'st  blush  to  see  me  in  such  plight, 
For  the  last  time  I  come  to  look  on  thee, 

0  Sun! 

CEnone. —  What!    Still  are  you  in  love  with  death? 

Shall  I  ne'er  see  you,  reconciled  to  life. 

Forego  these  cruel  accents  of  despair? 
Ph^dra. — Would  I  were  seated  in  the  forest's  shade ! 

When  may  I  follow  with  delighted  eye. 

Thro'  glorious  dust  flying  in  full  career, 

A  chariot — 
(Enone. —  Madam? 

Phaedra. —  Have  I  lost  my  senses? 

What  said  I  ?  and  where  am  I  ?    Whither  stray 

Vain  wishes  ?    Ah !    The  gods  have  made  me  mad. 

1  blush,  CEnone,  and  confusion  covers 
My  face,  for  I  have  let  you  see  too  clearly 
The  shame  and  grief  that,  in  my  own  despite, 
O'erflow  these  eyes  of  mine. 

CEnone. —  If  you  must  blush, 

Blush  at  a  silence  that  inflames  your  woes. 
Resisting  all  my  care,  deaf  to  my  voice. 
Will  you  have  no  compassion  on  yourself, 
But  let  your  life  be  ended  in  mid  course? 
What  evil  spell  has  drain'd  its  fountain  dry? 
Thrice  have  the  shades  of  night  obscured  the  heav'ns 
Since  sleep  has  enter'd  thro'  your  eyes,  and  thrice 
The  dawn  has  chased  the  darkness  thence,  since  food 
Pass'd  your  wan  lips,  and  you  are  faint  and  languid. 
To  what  dread  purpose  is  your  heart  inclined  ? 
How  dare  you  make  attempts  upon  your  life. 
And  so  offend  the  gods  who  gave  it  you, 
Prove  false  to  Theseus  and  your  marriage  vows. 
Ay,  and  betray  your  most  unhappy  children. 
Bending  their  necks  yourself  beneath  the  yoke? 
That  day,  be  sure,  which  robs  them  of  their  mother. 
Will  give  high  hopes  back  to  the  stranger's  son, 
To  that  proud  enemy  of  you  and  yours, 
To  whom  an  Amazon  gave  birth,  I  mean 
Hippolytus — 


PH^DRA  333 

Ph^dra. —  Ye  godsl 

CEnone. —  Ah,  this  reproach 

Moves  you ! 

Ph^dra. —  Unhappy  woman,  to  what  name 

Gave  your  mouth  utterance  ? 

CEnone. —  Your  wrath  is  just. 

'Tis  well  that  that  ill-omen'd  name  can  rouse 
Such  rage.    Then  live.    Let  love  and  duty  urge 
Their  claims.    Live,  suffer  not  this  son  of  Scythia, 
Crushing  your  children  'neath  his  odious  sway, 
To  rule  the  noble  offspring  of  the  gods, 
The  purest  blood  of  Greece.    Make  no  delay ; 
Each  moment  threatens  death  ;  quickly  restore 
Your  shatter'd  strength,  while  yet  the  torch  of  life 
Holds  out,  and  can  be  fann'd  into  a  flame. 

Ph^dra. — Too  long  have  I  endured  its  guilt  and  shame ! 

CEnone. — Why  ?    What  remorse  gnaws  at  your  heart  ?    What 
crime 
Can  have  disturb'd  you  thus  ?    Your  hands  are  not 
Polluted  with  the  blood  of  innocence  ? 

Ph^dra. — Thanks  be  to  Heav'n,  my  hands  are  free  from  stain. 
Would  that  my  soul  were  innocent  as  they ! 

CEnone. — What  awful  project  have  you  then  conceived, 
Whereat  your  conscience  should  be  still  alarm'd? 

Ph^dra. — Have  I  not  said  enough  ?    Spare  me  the  rest. 
I  die  to  save  myself  a  full  confession. 

CEnone. — Die  then,  and  keep  a  silence  so  inhuman ; 
But  seek  some  other  hand  to  close  your  eyes. 
Tho'  but  a  spark  of  life  remains  within  you. 
My  soul  shall  go  before  you  to  the  Shades. 
A  thousand  roads  are  always  open  thither ; 
Pain'd  at  your  want  of  confidence,  I'll  choose 
The  shortest.    Cruel  one,  when  has  my  faith 
Deceived  you  ?    Think  how  in  my  arms  you  lay 
New  born.    For  you,  my  country  and  my  children 
I  have  forsaken.    Do  you  thus  repay 
My  faithful  service? 

Ph^dra. —  What  do  you  expect 

From  words  so  bitter?    Were  I  to  break  silence, 
Horror  would  freeze  your  blood. 


334 


RACINE 


CEnone. —  What  can  you  say- 

To  horrify  me  more  than  to  behold 

You  die  before  my  eyes  ? 
Ph^dra. —  When  you  shall  know 

My  crime,  my  death  will  follow  none  the  less, 

But  with  the  added  stain  of  guilt. 
CEnone. —  Dear  Madam, 

By  all  the  tears  that  I  have  shed  for  you. 

By  these  weak  knees  I  clasp,  relieve  my  mind 

From  torturing  doubt. 
Ph^dra. —  It  is  your  wish.    Then  rise. 

CEnone. — I  hear  you.    Speak. 

Ph^dra. —  Heav'ns!    How  shall  I  begin? 

CEnone. — Dismiss  vain  fears,  you  wound  me  with  distrust. 
Ph^dra. — O  fatal  animosity  of  Venus ! 

Into  what  wild  distractions  did  she  cast 

My  mother ! 
CEnone. —  Be  they  blotted  from  remembrance, 

And  for  all  time  to  come  buried  in  silence. 
Phaedra. — My  sister  Ariadne,  by  what  love 

Were  you  betray'd  to  death,  on  lonely  shores 

Forsaken ! 
CEnone. —  Madam,  what  deep-seated  pain 

Prompts  these  reproaches  against  all  your  kin  ? 
Ph^dra. — It  is  the  will  of  Venus,  and  I  perish, 

Last,  most  unhappy  of  a  family 

Where  all  were  wretched. 
CEnone. —  Do  you  love? 

Ph^dra. —  '  I  feel 

All  its  mad  fever. 
CEnone. — Ah !    For  whom  ? 
Phaedra. —  Hear  now 

The  crowning  horror.    Yes,  I  love — my  lips 

Tremble  to  say  his  name. 
CEnone. —  Whom  ?_ 

Ph^dra. —  Know  you  him, 

Son  of  the  Amazon,  whom  I've  oppress'd 

So  long  ? 
CEnone. —  Hippolytus?    Great  gods! 

Ph^dra. —  'Tis  you 

Have  named  him. 


PH^DRA  335 

CEnone, —  All  my  blood  within  my  veins 

Seems  frozen.    O  despair !    O  cursed  race ! 
Ill-omen'd  journey  !    Land  of  misery ! 
Why  did  we  ever  reach  thy  dangerous  shores  ? 

Ph^dra. — My  wound  is  not  so  recent.     Scarcely  had  I 
Been  bound  to  Theseus  by  the  marriage  yoke, 
And  happiness  and  peace  seem'd  well  secured, 
When  Athens  show'd  me  my  proud  enemy. 
I  look'd,  alternately  turn'd  pale  and  blush'd 
To  see  him,  and  my  soul  grew  all  distraught ; 
A  mist  obscured  my  vision,  and  my  voice 
Falter'd,  my  blood  ran  cold,  then  burn'd  like  fire; 
;  Venus  I  felt  in  all  my  fever'd  frame. 
Whose  fury  had  so  many  of  my  race 
Pursued.    With  fervent  vows  I  sought  to  shun 
Her  torments,  built  and  deck'd  for  her  a  shrine, 
And  there,  'mid  countless  victims  did  I  seek 
The  reason  I  had  lost ;  but  all  for  nought. 
No  remedy  could  cure  the  wounds  of  love ! 
In  vain  I  offer'd  incense  on  her  altars ; 
When  I  invoked  her  name,  my  heart  adored 
Hippolytus,  before  me  constantly ; 
And  when  I  made  her  altars  smoke  with  victims, 
'Twas  for  a  god  whose  name  I  dared  not  utter. 
I  fled  his  presence  everywhere,  but  found  him — 

0  crowning  horror ! — in  his  father's  features. 

Against  myself,  at  last,  I  raised  revolt,  ^^ 

And  stirr'd  my  courage  up  to  persecute  "'  ^ 

The  enemy  I  loved.    To  banish  him 

1  wore  a  step-dame's  harsh  and  jealous  carriage, 
With  ceaseless  cries  I  clamor'd  for  his  exile. 
Till  I  had  torn  him  from  his  father's  arms. 

I  breathed  once  more,  CEnone ;  in  his  absence 
My  days  flow'd  on  less  troubled  than  before. 
And  innocent.    Submissive  to  my  husband, 
I  hid  my  grief,  and  of  our  fatal  marriage 
Cherish'd  the  fruits.    Vain  caution  !    Cruel  Fate! 
Brought  hither  by  my  spouse  himself,  I  saw 
Again  the  enemy  whom  I  had  banish'd, 
And  the  old  wound  too  quickly  bled  afresh. 
No  longer  is  it  love  hid  in  my  heart, 


336  RACINE 

But  Venus  in  her  might  seizing  her  prey. 
I  have  conceived  just  terror  for  my  crime; 
I  hate  my  life,  and  hold  my  love  in  horror. 
Dying  I  wish'd  to  keep  my  fame  unsullied, 
And  bury  in  the  grave  a  guilty  passion ; 
But  I  have  been  unable  to  withstand 
Tears  and  entreaties,  I  have  told  you  all ; 
Content,  if  only,  as  my  end  draws  near, 
You  do  not  vex  me  with  unjust  reproaches, 
Nor  with  vain  efforts  seek  to  snatch  from  death 
The  last  faint  lingering  sparks  of  vital  breath. 


Scene  IV. 

PhcBdra,  CEnone,  Panope. 

Panope. — Fain  would  I  hide  from  you  tidings  so  sad, 

But  'tis  my  duty,  Madam,  to  reveal  them. 

The  hand  of  death  has  seized  your  peerless  husband, 

And  you  are  last  to  hear  of  this  disaster. 
CEnone. — What  say  you,  Panope  ? 
Panope. —  The  queen,  deceived 

By  a  vain  trust  in  Heav'n,  begs  safe  return 

For  Theseus,  w^hile  Hippolytus  his  son 

Learns  of  his  death  from  vessels  that  are  now 

In  port. 
Ph^dra. —         Ye  gods ! 
Panope. —  Divided  counsels  sway 

The  choice  of  Athens ;  some  would  have  the  prince, 

Your  child,  for  master ;  others,  disregarding 

The  laws,  dare  to  support  the  stranger's  son. 

'Tis  even  said  that  a  presumptuous  faction 

Would  crown  Aricia  and  the  house  of  Pallas. 

I  deem'd  it  right  to  warn  you  of  this  danger. 

Hippolytus  already  is  prepared 

To  start,  and  should  he  show  himself  at  Athens, 

'Tis  to  be  fear'd  the  fickle  crowd  will  all 

Follow  his  lead. 
CEnone. —  Enough.    The  queen,  who  hears  you. 

By  no  means  will  neglect  this  timely  warning. 


PHiEDRA  337 

Scene  V. 

Phcpdra,  (Enone. 

CEno  ne. — Dear  lady,  I  had  almost  ceased  to  urge 

The  wish  that  you  should  live,  thinking  to  follow 
My  mistress  to  the  tomb,  from  which  my  voice 
Had  fail'd  to  turn  you ;  but  this  new  misfortune 
_Alters  the  aspect  of  affairs,  and  prompts 
Fresh  measures.    Madam,  Theseus  is  no  more, 
You  must  supply  his  place.    He  leaves  a  son, 
A  slave,  if  you  should  die,  but,  if  you  Hve, 
A  King.    On  whom  has  he  to  lean  but  you  ? 
No  hand  but  yours  will  dry  his  tears.    Then  live 
For  him,  or  else  the  tears  of  innocence 
Will  move  the  gods,  his  ancestors,  to  wrath 
Against  his  mother.    Live,  your  guilt  is  gone. 
No  blame  attaches  to  your  passion  now. 
The  King's  decease  has  freed  you  from  the  bonds 
That  made  the  crime  and  horror  of  your  love. 
Hippolytus  no  longer  need  be  dreaded, 
Him  you  may  see  henceforth  without  reproach. 
It  may  be,  that,  convinced  of  your  aversion, 
He  means  to  head  the  rebels.    Undeceive  him. 
Soften  his  callous  heart,  and  bend  his  pride, 
fong  of  this  fertile  land,  in  Troezen  here 
His  portion  lies ;  but  as  he  knows,  the  laws 
Give  to  your  son  the  ramparts  that  Minerva 
Built  and  protects.    A  common  enemy 
Threatens  you  both,  unite  then  to  oppose 
Aricia. 

Ph^dra. —        To  your  counsel  I  consent. 
Yes,  I  will  live,  if  life  can  be  restored. 
If  my  affection  for  a  son  has  pow'r 
To  rouse  my  sinking  heart  at  such  a  dangerous  hour. 


338  RACINE 


ACT  SECOND. 

Scene  I. 

Aricia,  Istneive. 

Aricia. — Hippolytus  request  to  see  me  here ! 
Hippolytus  desire  to  bid  farewell ! 
Is  't  true,  Ismene?    Are  you  not  deceived? 

ISMENE. — This  is  the  first  result  of  Theseus'  death. 
Prepare  yourself  to  see  from  every  side 
Hearts  turn  toward  you  that  were  kept  away 
By  Theseus.    Mistress  of  her  lot  at  last, 
Aricia  soon  shall  find  all  Greece  fall  low, 
To  do  her  homage. 

Aricia. —  'Tis  not  then,  Ismene, 

An  idle  tale  ?    Am  I  no  more  a  slave  ? 
Have  I  no  enemies? 

Ismene. —  The  gods  oppose 

Your  peace  no  longer,  and  the  soul  of  Theseus 
Is  with  your  brothers. 

Aricia. —  Does  the  voice  of  fame 

Tell  how  he  died? 

Ismene. —  Rumors  incredible 

Are  spread.    Some  say  that,  seizing  a  new  bride, 

The  faithless  husband  by  the  waves  was  swallow'd. 

Others  affirm,  and  this  report  prevails. 

That  with  Pirithous  to  the  world  below 

He  went,  and  saw  the  shores  of  dark  Cocytus, 

Showing  himself  alive  to  the  pale  ghosts ; 

But  that  he  could  not  leave  those  gloomy  realms. 

Which  whoso  enters  there  abides  forever. 

Aricia. — Shall  I  believe  that  ere  his  destined  hour 
A  mortal  may  descend  into  the  gulf 
Of  Hades  ?    What  attraction  could  o'ercome 
Its  terrors? 

Ismene. —  He  is  dead,  and  you  alone 

Doubt  it.    The  men  of  Athens  mourn  his  loss. 
Troezen  already  hails  Hippolytus 


PH.EDRA  339 

As  King.    And  Phaedra,  fearing  for  her  son, 
Asks  counsel  of  the  friends  who  share  her  trouble. 
Here  in  this  palace. 

A.iaciA. —  Will  Hippolytus, 

Think  you,  prove  kinder  than  his  sire,  make  light 
My  chains,  and  pity  my  misfortunes  ? 

IsMENE. —  Yes, 

I  think  so,  Madam. 

Aricia. —  Ah,  you  know  him  not 

Or  you  would  never  deem  so  hard  a  heart 
Can  pity  feel,  or  me  alone  except 
From  the  contempt  in  which  he  holds  our  sex. 
Has  he  not  long  avoided  every  spot 
Where  we  resort  ? 

ISMENE. —  I  know  what  tales  are  told 

Of  proud  Hippolytus,  but  I  have  seen 
Him  near  you,  and  have  watch'd  with  curious  eye 
How  one  esteem'd  so  cold  would  bear  himself. 
Little  did  his  behavior  correspond 
With  what  I  look'd  for ;  in  his  face  confusion 
Appear'd  at  your  first  glance,  he  could  not  turn 
His  languid  eyes  away,  but  gazed  on  you. 
Love  is  a  word  that  may  offend  his  pride, 
But  what  the  tongue  disowns,  looks  can  betray. 

Aricia. — How  eagerly  my  heart  hears  what  you  say, 
Tho'  it  may  be  delusion,  dear  Ismene ! 
Did  it  seem  possible  to  you,  who  know  me. 
That  I,  sad  sport  of  a  relentless  Fate, 
Fed  upon  bitter  tears  by  night  and  day, 
Could  ever  taste  the  maddening  draught  of  love? 
The  last  frail  offspring  of  a  royal  race, 
Children  of  Earth,  I  only  have  survived 
War's  fury.    Cut  off  in  the  flow'r  of  youth, 
Mown  by  the  sword,  six  brothers  have  I  lost, 
The  hope  of  an  illustrious  house,  whose  blood 
Earth  drank  with  sorrow,  near  akin  to  his 
Whom  she  herself  produced.    Since  then,  you  know 
How  thro'  all  Greece  no  heart  has  been  allow'd 
To  sigh  for  me,  lest  by  a  sister's  flame 
The  brothers'  ashes  be  perchance  rekindled. 


340  RACINE 

You  know,  besides,  with  what  disdain  I  view'd 

My  conqueror's  suspicions  and  precautions. 

And  how,  opposed  as  I  have  ever  been 

To  love,  I  often  thank'd  the  King's  injustice 

Which  happily  confirm'd  my  inclination. 

But  th"n  I  never  had  beheld  his  son. 

Not  that,  attracted  merely  by  the  eye, 

I  love  him  for  his  beauty  and  his  grace, 

Endowments  which  he  owes  to  Nature's  bounty, 

Charms  which  he  seems  to  know  not  or  to  scorn. 

I  love  and  prize  in  him  riches  more  rare. 

The  virtues  of  his  sire,  without  his  faults. 

I  love,  as  I  must  own,  that  generous  pride 

Which   ne'er  has  stoop'd  beneath  the  amorous  yoke. 

Phaedra  reaps  little  glory  from  a  lover 

So  lavish  of  his  sighs ;  I  am  too  proud 

To  share  devotion  with  a  thousand  others. 

Or  enter  where  the  door  is  always  open. 

But  to  make  one  who  ne'er  has  stoop'd  before 

Bend  his  proud  neck,  to  pierce  a  heart  of  stone,( 
To  bind  a  captive  whom  his  chains  astonish', 
Who  vainly  'gainst  a  pleasing  yoke  rebels — 
That  piques  my  ardor,  and  I  long  for  that. 
'Twas  easier  to  disarm  the  god  of  strength 
Than  this  Hippolytus,  for  Hercules 
Yielded  so  often  to  the  eyes  of  beauty. 
As  to  make  triumph  cheap.    But,  dear  Ismene, 
I  take  too  little  heed  of  opposition 
Beyond  my  pow'r  to  quell,  and  you  may  hear  me, 
Humbled  by  sore  defeat,  upbraid  the  pride 
I  now  admire.    What !    Can  he  love  ?  and  1 
Have  had  the  happiness  to  bend — 
Ismene. —  He  comes. 

Yourself  shall  hear  him. 


PH^DRA  341 

Scene  n. 

flip  poly  tus,  Aricia,  Ismene. 

HiPPOLYTUS. —  Lady,  ere  I  go 

My  duty  bids  me  tell  you  of  your  change 
Of  fortune.    My  worst  fears  are  realized ; 
My  sire  is  dead.    Yes,  his  protracted  absence 
Was  caused  as  I  foreboded.    Death  alone, 
Ending  his  toils,  could  keep  him  from  the  world 
Conceal'd  so  long.    The  gods  at  last  have  doom'd 
Alcides'  friend,  companion,  and  successor. 
I  think  your  hatred,  tender  to  his  virtues, 
Can  hear  such  terms  of  praise  without  resentment, 
Knowing  them  due.    One  hope  have  I  that  soothes 
My  sorrow :  I  can  free  you  from  restraint. 
Lo,  I  revoke  the  laws  whose  rigor  moved 
My  pity ;  you  are  at  your  own  disposal, 
Both  heart  and  hand ;  here,  in  my  heritage. 
In  Troezen,  where  my  grandsire  Pittheus  reigti'd 
Of  yore  and  I  am  now  acknowledged  King, 
I  leave  you  free,  free  as  myself — and  more. 

Aricia. — Your  kindness  is  too  great,  'tis  ovenvhelming. 
Such  generosity,  that  pays  disgrace 
With  honor,  lends  more  force  than  you  can  think 
To  those  harsh  laws  from  which  you  would  release  me. 

HiPPOLYTUS. — Athens,  uncertain  how  to  fill  the  throne 

Of  Theseus,  speaks  of  you,  anon  of  me,  r 

And  then  of  Phaedra's  son.  ^ 

Aricia. —  Of  me,  my  lord? 

HiPPOLYTUS. — I  know  myself  excluded  by  strict  law : 
Greece  turns  to  my  reproach  a  foreign  mother. 
But  if  my  brother  were  my  only  rival. 
My  rights  prevail  o'er  his  clearly  enough 
To  make  me  careless  of  the  law's  caprice. 
My  forw^ardness  is  check'd  by  juster  claims: 
To  you  I  yield  my  place,  or,  rather,  own 
That  it  is  yours  by  right,  and  yours  the  sceptre, 
As  handed  down  from  Earth's  great  son,  Erechtheus. 
Adoption  placed  it  in  the  hands  of  .^Egeus : 


342 


RACINE 


Athens,  by  him  protected  and  increased, 
Welcomed  a  king  so  generous  as  my  sire. 
And  left  your  hapless  brothers  in  oblivion. 
Now  she  invites  you  back  within  her  walls ; 
Protracted  strife  has  cost  her  groans  enough, 
Her  fields  are  glutted  with  your  kinsmen's  blood 
Fatt'ning  the  furrows  out  of  which  it  sprung 
At  first.    I  rule  this  Troezen  ;  while  the  son 
Of  Phaedra  has  in  Crete  a  rich  domain. 
Athens  is  jours.    I  will  do  all  I  can 
To  join  for  you  the  votes  divided  now 
Between  us. 

Aricia. —  Stunn'd  at  all  I  hear,  my  lord, 

I  fear,  I  almost  fear  a  dream  deceives  me. 
Am  I  indeed  awake  ?    Can  I  believe 
Such  generosity?    What  god  has  put  it 
Into  your  heart  ?    Well  is  the  fame  deserved 
That  you  enjoy !    That  fame  falls  short  of  truth ! 
Would  you  for  me  prove  traitor  to  yourself  ? 
Was  it  not  boon  enough  never  to  hate  me. 
So  long  to  have  abstain'd  from  harboring 
The  enmity — 

HiPPOLYTUs. —  To  hate  you?    I,  to  hate  you? 

However  darkly  my  fierce  pride  was  painted, 
Do  you  suppose  a  monster  gave  me  birth  ? 
What  savage  temper,  what  envenom'd  hatred 
Would  not  be  mollified  at  sight  of  you  ? 
Could  I  resist  the  soul-bewitching  charm — 

Aricia. — Why,  what  is  this.  Sir? 

HiPPOLYTUs. —  I  have  said  too  much 

Not  to  say  more.    Prudence  in  vain  resists 
The  violence  of  passion.    I  have  broken 
Silence  at  last,  and  I  must  tell  you  now 
The  secret  that  my  heart  can  hold  no  longer. 
You  see  before  you  an  unhappy  instance 
Of  hasty  pride,  a  prince  who  claims  compassion. 
I,  who,  so  long  the  enemy  of  Love, 
Mock'd  at  his  fetters  and  despised  his  captives, 
Who,  pitying  poor  mortals  that  were  shipwreck'd. 
In  seeming  safety  view'd  the  storms  from  land, 


ph;edra  343 

Now  find  myself  to  the  same  fate  exposed, 

Toss'd  to  and  fro  upon  a  sea  of  troubles ! 

My  boldness  has  been  vanquish'd  in  a  moment, 

And  humbled  is  the  pride  wherein  I  boasted. 

For  nearly  six  months  past,  ashamed,  despairing", 

Bearing  where'er  I  go  the  shaft  that  rends 

My  heart,  I  struggle  vainly  to  be  free 

From  you  and  from  myself ;  I  shun  you,  present ; 

Absent,  I  find  you  near ;  I  see  your  form 

In  the  dark  forest  depths ;  the  shades  of  night, 

Nor  less  broad  daylight,  bring  back  to  my  view 

The  charms  that  I  avoid ;  all  things  conspire    _ 

To  make  Hippolytus  your  slave.    For  fruit 

Of  all  my  bootless  sighs,  I  fail  to  find 

My  former  self.    My  bow  and  javelins 

Please  me  no  more,  my  chariot  is  forgotten. 

With  all  the  Sea-God's  lessons ;   and  the  woods 

Echo  my  groans  instead  of  joyous  shouts 

Urging  my  fiery  steeds. 

Hearing  this  tale 
Of  passion  so  uncouth,  you  blush  perchance 
At  your  own  handiwork.    With  what  wild  words 
I  offer  you  my  heart,  strange  captive  held 
By  silken  jess !    But  dearer  in  your  eyes 
Should  be  the  offering,  that  this  language  comes 
Strange  to  my  lips ;  reject  not  vows  express'd 
So  ill,  which  but  for  you  had  ne'er  been  form'd. 


Scene  III. 

Hippolytus,  Aricia,  Theramenes,  Ismene. 

Theramenes. — Prince,  the   Queen  comes.      I  herald   her  ap- 
proach. 

*Tis  you  she  seeks. 
Hippolytus. —  Me  ? 

Theramenes. —  What  her  thought  may  be 

I  know  not.    But  I  speak  on  her  behalf. 

She  would  converse  with  you  ere  you  go  hence. 
Hippolytus. — What  shall  I  say  to  her  ?    Can  she  expect — 


344  RACINE 

Aricia. — You  cannot,  noble  Prince,  refuse  to  hear  her, 
Howe'er  convinced  she  is  your  enemy, 
Some  shade  of  pity  to  her  tears  is  due. 

HiPPOLYTus. — Shall  we  part  thus  ?  and  will  you  let  me  go, 
Not  knowing  if  my  boldness  has  offended 
The  goddess  I  adore  ?    Whether  this  heart, 
Left  in  your  hands — 

Aricia. —  Go,  Prince,  pursue  the  schemes 

Your  generous  soul  dictates,  make  Athens  own 
My  sceptre.    All  the  gifts  you  offer  me 
Will  I  accept,  but  this  high  throne  of  empire 
Is  not  the  one  most  precious  in  my  sight. 


Scene  IV. 

Hip  poly  tus,  Theramenes. 

HiPPOLYTUS. — Friend,  is  all  ready  ?    But  the  Queen  approaches. 
Go,  see  the  vessel  in  fit  trim  to  sail. 
Haste,  bid  the  crew  aboard,  and  hoist  the  signal ; 
Then  soon  return,  and  so  deliver  me 
From  interview  most  irksome. 

Scene  V. 

PhcFdra,  Hippolytus,  CEnone. 

Ph.edra  [to  CEnone], —  There  I  see  him! 

My  blood  forgets  to  flow,  my  tongue  to  speak 

What  I  am  come  to  say. 
CEnone. —  Think  of  your  son, 

How  all  his  hopes  depend  on  you. 
Ph^dra, —  I  hear 

You  leave  us,  and  in  haste.    I  come  to  add 

My  tears  to  your  distress,  and  for  a  son 

Plead  my  alarm.    No  more  has  he  a  father. 

And  at  no  distant  day  my  son  must  witness 

My  death.    Already  do  a  thousand  foes 

Threaten  his  youth.    You  only  can  defend  him. 

But  in  my  secret  heart  remorse  awakes, 


PH^DRA  345 

And  fear  lest  I  have  shut  your  ears  against 
His  cries.    I  tremble  lest  your  righteous  anger 
Visit  on  him  ere  long  the  hatred  earn'd 
By  me,  his  mother. 

HiPPOLYTUS. —  No  such  base  resentment, 

Madam,  is  mine. 

Ph^dra. —  I  could  not  blame  you,  Prince, 

If  you  should  hate  me.    I  have  injured  you: 
So  much  you  know,  but  could  not  read  my  heart. 
T'  incur  your  enmity  has  been  mine  aim : 
The  self-same  borders  could  not  hold  us  both ; 
In  public  and  in  private  I  declared 
Myself  your  foe,  and  found  no  peace  till  seas 
Parted  us  from  each  other.    I  forbade 
Your  very  name  to  be  pronounced  before  me. 
And  yet  if  punishment  should  be  proportion'd 
To  the  offence,  if  only  hatred  draws 
Your  hatred,  never  woman  merited 
More  pity,  less  deserved  your  enmity. 

HiPPOLYTUs. — A  mother  jealous  of  her  children's  rights 
Seldom  forgives  the  offspring  of  a  wife 
Who  reign'd  before  her.    Harassing  suspicions 
Are  common  sequels  of  a  second  marriage. 
Of  me  would  any  other  have  been  jealous 
No  less  than  you,  perhaps  more  violent? 

Ph^dra. — Ah,  Prince,  how  Heav'n  has  from  the  general  law 
Made  me  exempt,  be  that  same  Heav'n  my  witness  I 
Far  different  is  the  trouble  that  devours  me ! 

HiPPOLYTUS. — This  is  no  time  for  self-reproaches.  Madam. 
It  may  be  that  your  husband  still  beholds 
The  light,  and  Heav'n  may  grant  him  safe  return, 
In  answer  to  our  prayers.    His  guardian  god 
Is  Neptune,  ne'er  by  him  invoked  in  vain. 

Phaedra. — He  who  has  seen  the  mansions  of  the  dead 

Returns  not  thence.    Since  to  those  gloomy  shores 
Theseus  is  gone,  'tis  vain  to  hope  that  Heav'n 
May  send  him  back.    Prince,  there  is  no  release 
From  Acheron's  greedy  maw.    And  yet,  methinks. 
He  lives,  and  breathes  in  you.    I  see  him  still 
Before  me,  and  to  him  I  seem  to  speak ; 


346  RACINE 

My  heart — 

Oh !  I  am  mad ;  do  what  I  will, 
I  cannot  hide  my  passion. 

HiPPOLYTUs. —  Yes,  I  see 

The  strange  effects  of  love.    Theseus,  tho'  dead, 
Seems  present  to  your  eyes,  for  in  your  soul 
There  burns  a  constant  flame. 

Ph^dra. —  Ah,  yes,  for  Theseus 

I  languish  and  I  long,  not  as  the  Shades 
Have  seen  him,  of  a  thousand  different  forms 
The  fickle  lover,  and  of  Pluto's  bride 
The  would-be  ravisher,  but  faithful,  proud 
E'en  to  a  slight  disdain,  with  youthful  charms 
Attracting  every  heart,  as  gods  are  painted, 
Or  like  yourself.    He  had  your  mien,  your  eyes, 
Spoke  and  could  blush  like  you,  when  to  the  isle 
Of  Crete,  my  childhood's  home,  he  cross'd  the  waves. 
Worthy  to  win  the  love  of  Minos'  daughters. 
What  were  you  doing  then  ?    Why  did  he  gather 
The  flow'r  of  Greece,  and  leave  Hippolytus  ? 
Oh,  why  were  you  too  young  to  have  embark'd 
On  board  the  ship  that  brought  thy  sire  to  Crete? 
At  your  hands  would  the  monster  then  have  perish'd, 
Despite  the  windings  of  his  vast  retreat. 
To  guide  your  doubtful  steps  within  the  maze 
My  sister  would  have  arm'd  you  with  the  clue. 
But  no,  therein  would  Phaedra  have  forestall'd  her. 
Love  would  have  first  inspired  me  with  the  thought; 
And  I  it  would  have  been  whose  timely  aid 
Had  taught  you  all  the  labyrinth's  crooked  ways. 
What  anxious  care  a  life  so  dear  had  cost  me ! 
No  thread  had  satisfied  your  lover's  fears : 
I  would  myself  have  wish'd  to  lead  the  way, 
And  share  the  peril  you  were  bound  to  face ; 
Phaedra  with  you  would  have  explored  the  maze, 
With  you  emerged  in  safety,  or  have  perish'd. 

Hippolytus. — Gods !    What  is  this  I  hear  ?    Have  you  forgotten 
That  Theseus  is  my  father  and  your  husband  ? 

Ph.'edra. — Why  should  you  fancy  1  have  lost  remembrance 
Thereof,  and  am  regardless  of  mine  honor? 


PH^DRA  347 

HiPPOLYTUS. — Forgive  me,  Madam.    With  a  blush  I  own 
That  I  misconstrued  words  of  innocence. 
For  very  shame  I  cannot  bear  your  sight 
Longer.    I  go — 

Ph^dra. —  Ah !  cruel  Prince,  too  well 

You  understood  me.    I  have  said  enough 
To  save  you  from  mistake.    I  love.    But  think  not 
That  at  the  moment  when  I  love  you  most 
I  do  not  feel  my  guilt ;  no  weak  compliance 
Has  fed  the  poison  that  infects  my  brain. 
The  ill-starr'd  object  of  celestial  vengeance, 
I  am  not  so  detestable  to  you 
As  to  myself.    The  gods  will  bear  me  witness, 
Who  have  within  my  veins  kindled  this  fire, 
The  gods,  who  take  a  barbarous  delight 
In  leading  a  poor  mortal's  heart  astray. 
Do  you  yourself  recall  to  mind  the  past : 
'Twas  not  enough  for  me  to  fly,  I  chased  you 
Out  of  the  country,  wishing  to  appear 
Inhuman,  odious ;   to  resist  you  better, 
I  sought  to  make  you  hate  me.    All  in  vain ! 
Hating  me  more  I  loved  you  none  the  less : 
New  charms  were  lent  to  you  by  your  misfortunes. 
I  have  been  drown'd  in  tears,  and  scorch 'd  by  fire ; 
Your  own  eyes  might  convince  you  of  the  truth. 
If  for  one  moment  you  could  look  at  me. 
What  is  't  I  say?    Think  you  this  vile  confession 
That  I  have  made  is  what  I  meant  to  utter  ? 
Not  daring  to  betray  a  son  for  whom 
I  trembled,  'twas  to  beg  you  not  to  hate  him 
I  came.    Weak  purpose  of  a  heart  too  full 
Of  love  for  you  to  speak  of  aught  besides ! 
Take  your  revenge,  punish  my  odious  passion ; 
Prove  yourself  worthy  of  your  valiant  sire. 
And  rid  the  world  of  an  ofifensive  monster ! 
Does  Theseus'  widow  dare  to  love  his  son  ? 
The  frightful  monster !    Let  her  not  escape  you  I 
Here  is  my  heart.    This  is  the  place  to  strike. 
Already  prompt  to  expiate  its  guilt, 
I  feel  it  leap  impatiently  to  meet 


348  RACINE 

Your  arm.    Strike  home.    Or,  if  it  would  disgrace  yov 
To  steep  your  hand  in  such  polluted  blood, 
If  that  were  punishment  too  mild  to  slake 
Your  hatred,  lend  me  then  your  sword,  if  not 
Your  arm.    Quick,  give  't. 
CEnone, —  What,  Madam,  will  you  do? 

Just  gods !    But  someone  comes.    Go,  fly  from  shame, 
You  cannot  'scape  if  seen  by  any  thus. 

Scene  VI. 

Hippolytus,  Theramenes. 

Theramenes. — Is  that  the  form  of  Phaedra  that  I  see 

Hurried  away  ?    What  mean  these  signs  of  sorrow  ? 

Where  is  your  sword?    Why  are  you  pale,  confused? 
Hippolytus. — Friend,  let  us  fly.    I  am,  indeed,  confounded 

With  horror  and  astonishment  extreme. 

Phaedra — but  no ;  gods,  let  this  dreadful  secret 

Remain  forever  buried  in  oblivion. 
Theramenes. — The  ship  is  ready  if  you  wish  to  sail. 

But  Athens  has  already  giv'n  her  vote ; 

Their  leaders  have  consulted  all  her  tribes ; 

Your  brother  is  elected,  Phaedra  wins. 
Hippolytus. — Phaedra  ? 
Theelamenes. —  A  herald,  charged  with  a  commission 

From  Athens,  has  arrived  to  place  the  reins 

Of  power  in  her  hands.    Her  son  is  King. 
Hippolytus. — Ye  gods,  who  know  her,  do  ye  thus  reward 

Her  virtue? 
Theramenes. —       A  faint  rumor  meanwhile  whispers 

That  Theseus  is  not  dead,  but  in  Epirus 

Has  shown  himself.    But,  after  all  my  search, 

I  know  too  well — 
Hippolytus. —  Let  nothing  be  neglected. 

This  rumor  must  be  traced  back  to  its  source. 

If  it  be  found  unworthy  of  belief, 

Let  us  set  sail,  and  cost  whate'er  it  may. 

To  hands  deserving  trust  the  sceptre's  sway. 


PHyEDRA  349 


ACT  THIRD. 

Scene  I. 
Phcsdra,  (Enone, 

Ph^dra. — Ah !  Let  them  take  elsewhere  the  worthless  honors 

They  bring  me.    Why  so  urgent  I  should  see  them  ? 

What  flattering  balm  can  soothe  my  wounded  heart? 

Far  rather  hide  me :   I  have  said  too  much. 

My  madness  has  burst  forth  like  streams  in  flood, 

And  I  have  utter'd  what  should  ne'er  have  reach 'd 

•His  ear.    Gods !    How  he  heard  me !    How  reluctant 

To  catch  my  meaning,  dull  and  cold  as  marble, 

And  eager  only  for  a  quick  retreat ! 

How  oft  his  blushes  made  my  shame  the  deeper ! 

Why  did  you  turn  me  from  the  death  I  sought? 

Ah  !    When  his  sword  was  pointed  to  my  bosom, 

Did  he  grow  pale,  or  try  to  snatch  it  from  me  ? 

That  I  had  touch 'd  it  was  enough  for  him 

To  render  it  forever  horrible, 

Leaving  defilement  on  the  hand  that  holds  it. 
CEnone. — Thus  brooding  on  your  bitter  disappointment. 

You  only  fan  a  fire  that  must  be  stifled. 

Would  it  not  be  more  worthy  of  the  blood 

Of  Minos  to  find  peace  in  nobler  cares. 

And,  in  defiance  of  a  wretch  who  flies 

From  what  he  hates,  reign,  mount  the  proffer'd  throne  ? 
Ph^dra. — I  reign !    Shall  I  the  rod  of  empire  sway, 

When  reason  reigns  no  longer  o'er  myself? 

When  I  have  lost  control  of  all  my  senses  ? 

When  'neath  a  shameful  yoke  I  scarce  can  breathe  ? 

When  I  am  dying? 
CExoxE. —  Fly. 

Ph/EDRa. —  I  cannot  leave  him. 

OEnone. — Dare  you  not  fly  from  him  you  dared  to  banish  ? 
Ph^dra. — The  time  for  that  is  past.    He  knows  my  frenzy. 

I  have  o'erstepp'd  the  bounds  of  modesty, 

And  blazon'd  forth  my  shame  before  his  eyes. 


350  RACINE 

Hope  stole  into  my  heart  against  my  will. 

Did  you  not  rally  my  declining  pow'rs  ? 

Was  it  not  you  yourself  recall'd  my  soul 

When  fluttering  on  my  lips,  and  with  your  counsel, 

Lent  me  fresh  life,  and  told  me  I  might  love  him? 

CEnone. — Blame  me  or  blame  me  not  for  your  misfortunes, 
Of  what  was  I  incapable,  to  save  you? 
But  if  your  indignation  e'er  was  roused 
By  insult,  can  you  pardon  his  contempt? 
How  cruelly  his  eyes,  severely  fix'd, 
Survey'd  you  almost  prostrate  at  his  feet ! 
How  hateful  then  appear'd  his  savage  pride ! 
Why  did  not  Phaedra  see  him  then  as  I 
Beheld  him? 

PHi^iDRA. —  This  proud  mood  that  you  resent 

May  yield  to  time.    The  rudeness  of  the  forests 
Where  he  was  bred,  inured  to  rigorous  laws. 
Clings  to  him  still ;  love  is  a  word  he  ne'er 
Had  heard  before.    It  may  be  his  surprise 
Stunn'd  him,  and  too  much  vehemence  was  shown 
In  all  I  said. 

CEnone. —  Remember  that  his  mother 

Was  a  barbarian. 

PHu^dra. —  Scythian  tho'  she  was. 

She  learnt  to  love. 

CEnone. —  He  has  for  all  the  sex 

Hatred  intense. 

Phaedra. —  Then  in  his  heart  no  rival 

Shall  ever  reign.    Your  counsel  comes  too  late. 
CEnone,  serve  my  madness,  not  my  reason. 
His  heart  is  inaccessible  to  love : 
Let  us  attack  him  where  he  has  more  feeling. 
The  charms  of  sovereignty  appear'd  to  touch  him ; 
He  could  not  hide  that  he  was  drawn  to  Athens ; 
His  vessels'  prows  were  thither  turn'd  already. 
All  sail  was  set  to  scud  before  the  breeze. 
Go  you  on  my  behalf,  to  his  ambition 
Appeal,  and  let  the  prospect  of  the  crown 
Dazzle  his  eyes.    The  sacred  diadem 
Shall  deck  his  brow,  no  higher  honor  mine 


PH^DRA  351 

Than  there  to  bind  it.    His  shall  be  the  pow'r 

I  cannot  keep ;  and  he  shall  teach  my  son 

How  to  rule  men.    It  may  be  he  will  deign 

To  be  to  him  a  father.     Son  and  mother 

He  shall  control.    Try  ev'ry  means  to  move  him ; 

Your  words  will  find  more  favor  than  can  mine. 

Urge  him  with  groans  and  tears ;  show  Phaedra  dying, 

Nor  blush  to  use  the  voice  of  supplication. 

In  you  is  my  last  hope ;  I'll  sanction  all 

You  say ;  and  on  the  issue  hangs  my  fate. 

Scene  II. 

PHiEDRA  [alone]. — Venus  implacable,  who  seest  me  shamed 
And  sore  confounded,  have  I  not  enough 
Been  humbled  ?    How  can  cruelty  be  stretch'd 
Farther  ?    Thy  shafts  have  all  gone  home,  and  thou 
Hast  triumph'd.    Would'st  thou  win  a  new  renown? 
Attack  an  enemy  more  contumacious : 
Hippolytus  neglects  thee,  braves  thy  wrath, 
Nor  ever  at  thine  altars  bow'd  the  knee. 
Thy  name  offends  his  proud,  disdainful  ears. 
Our  interests  are  alike :  avenge  thyself, 
Force  him  to  love — 

But  what  is  this  ?    CEnone 
Return'd  already  ?    He  detests  me  then, 
And  will  not  hear  you. 

Scene  III. 

Phcedra,  CEnone. 

CEnone. — Madam,  you  must  stifle 

A  fruitless  love.  Recall  your  former  virtue : 
The  king  who  was  thought  dead  will  soon  appear 
Before  your  eyes,  Theseus  has  just  arrived, 
Theseus  is  here.  The  people  flock  to  see  him 
With  eager  haste.  I  went  by  your  command 
To  find  the  prince,  when  with  a  thousand  shouts 
The  air  was  rent—  classics.    Vol.  3o-p 


354  RACINE 

Ph^dra. —  My  husband  is  alive. 

That  is  enough,  CEnone.    I  have  own'd 
A  passion  that  dishonors  him.    He  lives : 
I  ask  to  know  no  more. 

(Enone.—  What? 

Ph^dra. —  I  foretold  it, 

But  you  refused  to  hear.    Your  tears  prevail'd 
Over  my  just  remorse.    Dying  this  morn, 
I  had  deserved  compassion ;  your  advice 
I  took,  and  die  dishonor'd. 

(Enone. —  Die  ? 

Ph^dra. —  Just  Heav'nsi 

What  have  I  done  to-day  ?    My  husband  comes. 
With  him  his  son :  and  I  shall  see  the  witness 
Of  my  adulterous  flame  watch  with  what  face 
I  greet  his  father,  while  my  heart  is  big 
With  sighs  he  scorn'd,  and  tears  that  could  not  move  him 
Moisten  mine  eyes.    Think  you  that  his  respect 
For  Theseus  will  induce  him  to  conceal 
-,     My  madness,  nor  disgrace  his  sire  and  king? 
;     Will  he  be  able  to  keep  back  the  horror 
>    He  has  for  me  ?    His  silence  would  be  vain. 
I  know  my  treason,  and  I  lack  the  boldness 
Of  those  abandon'd  women  who  can  taste 
Tranquillity  in  crime,  and  show  a  forehead 
All  unabash'd.    I  recognize  my  madness. 
Recall  it  all.    These  vaulted  roofs,  methinks, 
These  walls  can  speak,  and,  ready  to  accuse  me, 
Wait  but  my  husband's  presence  to  reveal 
My  perfidy.    Death  only  can  remove 
This  weight  of  horror.    Is  it  such  misfortune 
To  cease  to  live  ?    Death  causes  no  alarm 
To  misery.    I  only  fear  the  name 
That  I  shall  leave  behind  me.    For  my  sons 
How  sad  a  heritage !    The  blood  of  Jove 
Might  justly  swell  the  pride  that  boasts  descent 
From  Heav'n,  but  heavy  weighs  a  mother's  guilt 
Upon  her  offspring.    Yes,  I  dread  the  scorn 
That  will  be  cast  on  them  with  too  much  truth. 
For  my  disgrace.    I  tremble  when  I  think 


PH^DRA  355 

That,  crush'd  beneath  that  curse,  they'll  never  dare 
To  raise  their  eyes. 

CEnone. —  Doubt  not  I  pity  both  ; 

Never  was  fear  more  just  than  yours.    Why  then 

Expose  them  to  this  ignominy?     Why 

Will  you  accuse  yourself?    You  thus  destroy 

The  only  hope  that's  left ;  it  will  be  said 

That  Phaedra,  conscious  of  her  perfidy. 

Fled  from  her  husband's  sight.    Hippolytus 

Will  be  rejoiced  that,  dying,  you  should  lend 

His  charge  support.    What  can  I  answer  him? 

He'll  find  it  easy  to  confute  my  tale, 

And  I  shall  hear  him  with  an  air  of  triumph 

To  every  open  ear  repeat  your  shame. 

Sooner  than  that  may  fire  from  heav'n  consume  me! 

Deceive  me  not.    Say,  do  you  love  him  still  ? 

How  look  you  now  on  this  contemptuous  prince? 

Phaedra. — As  on  a  monster  frightful  to  mine  eyes. 

CEnone. — Why  yield  him  then  an  easy  victory? 

You  fear  him.    Venture  to  accuse  him  first, 
As  guilty  of  the  charge  which  he  may  bring 
This  day  against  you.    Who  can  say  'tis  false? 
All  tells  against  him :  in  your  hands  his  sword 
Happily  left  behind,  your  present  trouble. 
Your  past  distress,  your  warnings  to  his  father, 
His  exile  which  your  earnest  pray'rs  obtain'd. 

pH^DRA. — What !    Would  you  have  me  slander  innocence  ? 

CEnone. — My  zeal  has  need  of  nought  from  you  but  silence^ 
Like  you  I  tremble,  and  am  loath  to  do  it ; 
More  willingly  I'd  face  a  thousands  deaths. 
But  since  without  this  bitter  remedy 
I  lose  you,  and  to  me  your  life  outweighs 
All  else,  I'll  speak.    Theseus,  howe'er  enraged, 
Will  do  no  worse  than  banish  him  again. 
A  father,  when  he  punishes,  remains 
A  father,  and  his  ire  is  satisfied 
With  a  light  sentence.    But  if  guiltless  blood 
Should  flow,  is  not  your  honor  of  more  moment? 
A  treasure  far  too  precious  to  be  risk'd? 
You  must  submit,  whatever  it  dictates ; 


354 


RACINE 


For,  when  our  rqjutation  is  at  stake, 
All  must  be  sacrificed,  conscience  itself. 
But  someone  comes.    'Tis  Theseus. 
Phaedra. —  And  I  sec 

Hippolytus,  my  ruin  plainly  written 
In  his  stem  eyes.     Do  what  you  will ;  I  trust 
My  fate  to  you.    I  cannot  help  myself. 

Scene  IV. 

Theseus,  Hippolytus,  Phcedra,  CEnone,  Theramenes. 

Theseus. — Fortune  no  longer  fights  against  my  wishes. 
Madam,  and  to  your  arms  restores — 

pHJEDRA. —  Stay,  Theseus  I 

Do  not  profane  endearments  that  were  once 
So  sweet,  but  which  I  am  unworthy  now 
To  taste.    You  have  been  wrong'd.    Fortune  has  proved 
Spiteful,  nor  in  your  absence  spared  your  wife. 
I  am  unfit  to  meet  your  fond  caress, 
How  I  may  bear  my  shame  my  only  care 
Henceforth. 

Scene  V. 

Theseus,  Hippolytus,  Theramenes. 

Theseus. —  Strange  welcome  for  your  father,  this! 

What  does  it  mean,  my  son  ? 

Hippolytus. —  Phaedra  alone 

Can  solve  this  mystery.    But  if  my  wish 
Can  move  you,  let  me  never  see  her  more ; 
Suffer  Hippolytus  to  disappear 
Forever  from  the  home  that  holds  your  wife. 

Theseus. — You,  my  son  I    Leave  me  ? 

Hippolytus. —  'Twas  not  I  who  sought  her: 

*Twas  you  who  led  her  footsteps  to  these  shores. 
At  your  departure  you  thought  meet,  my  lord. 
To  trust  Aricia  and  the  Queen  to  this 
Trcezenian  land,  and  I  myself  was  charged 
.With  their  protection.    But  what  cares  henceforth 


PH^DRA  355 

Need  keep  me  here?    My  youth  of  idleness 
Has  shown  its  skill  enough  o'er  paltry  foes 
That  range  the  woods.    May  I  not  quit  a  life 
Of  such  inglorious  ease,  and  dip  my  spear 
In  nobler  blood  ?    Ere  you  had  reach'd  my  age 
More  than  one  tyrant,  monster  more  than  one 
Had  felt  the  weight  of  your  stout  arm.    Already, 
Successful  in  attacking  insolence, 
You  had  removed  all  dangers  that  infested 
Our  coasts  to  east  and  west.    The  traveller  fear'd 
Outrage  no  longer.    Plearing  of  your  deeds, 
Already  Hercules  relied  on  you. 
And  rested  from  his  toils.     While  I,  unknown 
Son  of  so  brave  a  sire,  am  far  behind 
Even  my  mother's  footsteps.    Let  my  courage 
Have  scope  to  act,  and  if  some  monster  yet 
Has  'scaped  you,  let  me  lay  the  glorious  spoils 
Down  at  your  feet ;  or  let  the  memory 
Of  death  faced  nobly  keep  my  name  alive, 
And  prove  to  all  the  world  I  was  your  son. 
Theseus. — Why,  what  is  this  ?    What  terror  has  possess'd 
My  family  to  make  them  fly  before  me? 
If  I  return  to  find  myself  so  fear'd. 
So  little  welcome,  why  did  Heav'n  release  me 
From  prison?    My  sole  friend,  misled  by  passion. 
Was  bent  on  robbing  of  his  wife  the  tyrant 
Who  ruled  Epirus.    With  regret  I  lent 
The  lover  aid,  but  Fate  *  ~d  made  us  blind, 
Myself  as  well  as  him.       he  tyrint  seized  me 
Defenceless  and  unarm'd.    Pirithoiis 
I  saw  with  tears  cast  forth  to  be  de-"'Our'd 
By  savage  beasts  that  lapp'd  the  L'   Dd  of  men. 
Myself  in  gloomy  caverns  he  enclosed, 
Deep  in  the  bowels  of  the  earth,  and  nigh 
To  Pluto's  realms.    Six  months  I  lay  ere  Heav'n 
Had  pity,  and  I  'scaped  the  watchful  eyes 
That  guarded  me.    Then  did  I  purge  the  world 
Of  a  foul  foe,  and  he  himself  has  fed 
His  monsters.    But,  when  with  expectant  joy 
To  all  that  is  most  precious  I  draw  near 


J56  RACINE 

Of  what  the  gods  have  left  me,  when  my  soul 
Looks  for  full  satisfaction  in  a  sight 
So  dear,  my  only  welcome  is  a  shudder. 
Embrace  rejected,  and  a  hasty  flight. 
Inspiring,  as  I  clearly  do,  such  terror. 
Would  I  were  still  a  prisoner  in  Epirus ! 
Phsedra  complains  that  I  have  suffer'd  outragies._ 
Who  has  betray'd  me  ?    Speak.    Why  was  I  not 
Avenged  ?    Has  Greece,  to  whom  mine  arm  so  oft 
Brought  useful  aid,  shelter'd  the  criminal  ? 
You  make  no  answer.    Is  my  son,  mine  own 
Dear  son,  confederate  with  mine  enemies  ? 
I'll  enter.    This  suspense  is  overwhelming. 
I'll  learn  at  once  the  culprit  and  the  crime, 
And  Phaedra  must  explain  her  troubled  state. 


Scene  VI. 

'Hippolytiis,  Theramenes. 

HiPPOLYTUS. — What  do  these  words  portend,  which  seem*d  tO 
freeze 

My  very  blood  ?    Will  Phsedra,  in  her  f renzy^ 

Accuse  herself,  and  seal  her  own  destruction  ? 

What  will  the  King  say  ?    Gods !    What  fatal  poison 

Has  love  spread  over  all  his  house !    Myself, 

Full  of  a  fire  his  hatred  disapproves. 

How  changed  he  finds  me  from  the  son  he  knew.l 

With  dark  forebodings  is  my  mind  alarm'd. 

But  innocence  has  surely  nought  to  fear. 

Come,  let  us  go,  and  in  some  other  place 

Consider  how  I  best  may  move  my  sire 

To  tenderness,  and  tell  him  of  a  flame 

iVex'd  but  not  vanquish'd  by  a  father's  blame. 


PHyEDRA  357 


ACT  FOURTH. 

Scene  I. 
Theseus,  CEnone, 

(Theseus. — Ah!    What  is  this  I  hear?    Presumptuous  traitor r 

And  would  he  have  disgraced  his  father's  honor  ? 

With  what  relentless  footsteps  Fate  pursues  mel 

Whither  I  go  I  know  not,  nor  where  now 

I  am.    O  kind  affection  ill  repaid ! 

Audacious  scheme !    Abominable  thought ! 

To  reach  the  object  of  his  foul  desire 

The  wretch  disdain'd  not  to  use  violence. 

I  know  this  sword  that  served  him  in  his  fury,  > 

The  sword  I  gave  him  for  a  nobler  use. 

Could  not  the  sacred  ties  of  blood  restrain  him  ? 

And  Phaedra — ^was  she  loath  to  have  him  punish'd  ? 

She  held  her  tongue.    Was  that  to  spare  the  culprit  ? 
CEnone. — Nay,  but  to  spare  a  most  unhappy  father. 

O'erwhelm'd  with  shame  that  her  eyes  should  have 
kindled 

So  infamous  a  flame  and  prompted  him 

To  crime  so  heinous,  Phaedra  would  have  died. 

I  saw  her  raise  her  arm,  and  ran  to  save  her. 

To  me  alone  you  owe  it  that  she  lives ; 

And,  in  my  pity  both  lor  her  and  you, 

Have  I  against  my  will  interpreted 

Her  tears. 
Theseus. —  The  traitor!     He  might  well  turn  pale. 

'Twas  fear  that  made  him  tremble  when  he  saw  me. 

I  was  astonish'd  that  he  show'd  no  pleasure ; 

His  frigid  greeting  chill'd  my  tenderness. 

But  was  this  guilty  passion  that  devours  him 

Declared  already  ere  I  banish'd  him 

From  Athens  ? 
CEnone. —  Sire,  remember  how  the  Queen 

Urged  you.    Illicit  love  caused  all  her  hatred. 
Theseus. — And  then  this  fire  broke  out  again  at  Troezen  ? 


358 


RACINE 


CEnone. — Sire,  I  have  told  you  all.    Too  long  the  Queen 
Has  been  allow'd  to  bear  her  grief  alone. 
Let  me  now  leave  you  and  attend  to  her. 


Scene  II. 

Theseus,  Hippolytus. 

Theseus. — Ah !   There  he  is.    Great  gods !    That  noble  mien 
Might  well  deceive  an  eye  less  fond  than  mine ! 
Why  should  the  sacred  stamp  of  virtue  gleam 
Upon  the  forehead  of  an  impious  wretch  ? 
Ought  not  the  blackness  of  a  traitor's  heart 
To  show  itself  by  sure  and  certain  signs  ? 

Hippolytus. — My  father,  may  I  ask  what  fatal  cloud 
Has  troubled  your  majestic  countenance  ? 
Dare  you  not  trust  this  secret  to  your  son  ? 

Theseus. — Traitor,  how  dare  you  show  yourself  before  me? 
Monster,  whom  Heaven's  bolts  have  spared  too  long  I 
Survivor  of  that  robber  crew  whereof 
I  cleansed  the  earth.    After  your  brutal  lust 
Scorn'd  even  to  respect  my  marriage  bed. 
You  venture — you,  my  hated  foe — to  come 
Into  my  presence,  here,  where  all  is  full 
Of  your  foul  infamy,  instead  of  seeking 
Some  unknown  land  that  never  heard  my  name. 

Fly,  traitor,  fly !    Stay  not  to  tempt  the  wrath 

That  I  can  scarce  restrain,  nor  brave  my  hatred. 

Disgrace  enough  have  I  incurr'd  forever 

In  being  father  of  so  vile  a  son, 

Without  your  death  staining  indelibly 

The  glorious  record  of  my  noble  deeds. 

Fly,  and  unless  you  wish  quick  punishment 

To  add  you  to  the  criminals  cut  off 

By  me,  take  heed  this  sun  that  lights  us  now 

Ne'er  see  you  more  set  foot  upon  this  soil. 

I  tell  you  once  again — fly,  haste,  return  not. 

Rid  all  my  realms  of  your  atrocious  presence. 

To  thee,  to  thee,  great  Neptune,  I  appeal; 
If  erst  I  clear'd  thy  shores  of  foul  assassins. 


Recall  thy  promise  to  reward  those  efforts, 

Crown'd  with  success,  by  granting  my  first  pray'r. 

Confined  for  long  in  close  captivity, 

I  have  not  yet  call'd  on  thy  pow'rful  aid, 

Sparing  to  use  the  valued  privilege 

Till  at  mine  utmost  need.    The  time  is  come, 

I  ask  thee  now.    Avenge  a  wretched  father! 

I  leave  this  traitor  to  thy  wrath ;  in  blood 

Quench  his  outrageous  fires,  and  by  thy  fury 

Theseus  will  estimate  thy  favor  tow'rds  him. 

HiPPOLYTUs. — Phaedra  accuses  me  of  lawless  passion !_ 
This  crowning  horror  all  my  soul  confounds ; 
Such  unexpected  blows,  falling  at  once, 
O'erwhelm  me,  choke  my  utterance,  strike  me  dumb. 

Theseus. — Traitor,  you  reckon'd  that  in  timid  silence 
Phaedra  would  bury  your  brutality. 
You  should  not  have  abandon'd  in  your  flight 
The  sword  that  in  her  hands  helps  to  condemn  you 
Or  rather,  to  complete  your  perfidy, 
You  should  have  robb'd  her  both  of  speech  and  life. 

HiPPOLYTUS. — Justly  indignant  at  a  lie  so  black 

I  might  be  pardon'd  if  I  told  the  truth  ;  ^      y 

But  it  concerns  your  honor  to  conceal  it.         J 
Approve  the  reverence  that  shuts  my  mouth ; 
And,  without  wishing  to  increase  your  woes. 
Examine  closely  what  my  life  has  been. 
Great  crimes  are  never  single,  they  are  link'd 
To  former  faults.    He  who  has  once  transgress'd 
May  violate  at  last  all  that  men  hold 
Most  sacred ;  vice,  like  virtue,  has  degrees 
Of  progress ;  innocence  was  never  seen 
To  sink  at  once  into  the  lowest  depths 
Of  guilt.    No  virtuous  man  can  in  a  day 
Turn  traitor,  murderer,  an  incestuous  wretch. 
The  nursling  of  a  chaste,  heroic  mother, 
I  have  not  proved  unworthy  of  my  birth. 
Pittheus,  whose  wisdom  is  by  all  esteem'd, 
Deign'd  to  instruct  me  when  I  left  her  hands. 
It  is  no  wish  of  mine  to  vaunt  my  merits, 
But,  if  I  may  lay  claim  to  any  virtue, 


359 


36o  RACINE 

I  think  beyond  all  else  I  have  display'd 

Abhorrence  of  those  sins  with  which  I'm  charged. 

For  this  Hippolytus  is  known  in  Greece, 

So  continent  that  he  is  deem'd  austere. 

All  know  my  abstinence  inflexible : 

The  daylight  is  not  purer  than  my  heart. 

How  then  could  I,  burning  with  fire  profane — 
Theseus. — Yes,  dastard,  'tis  that  very  pride  condemns  you. 

I  see  the  odious  reason  of  your  coldness : 
•   Phaedra  alone  bewitch'd  your  shameless  eyes; 

Your  soul,  to  others'  charms  indifferent, 

Disdain'd  the  blameless  fires  of  lawful  love. 
Hippolytus. — No,  father,  I  have  hidden  it  too  long, 

This  heart  has  not  disdain'd  a  sacred  flame. 

Here  at  your  feet  I  own  my  real  oflfence : 

I  love,  and  love  in  truth  where  you  forbid  me ; 

Bound  to  Aricia  by  my  heart's  devotion, 

The  child  of  Pallas  has  subdued  your  son. 

A  rebel  to  your  laws,  her  I  adore, 

And  breathe  forth  ardent  sighs  for  her  alone. 
Theseus. — You  love  her  ?    Heav'ns ! 

But  no,  I  see  the  trick. 

You  feign  a  crime  to  justify  yourself. 
Hippolytus. — Sir,  I  have  shunn'd  her  for  six  months,  and  still 

Love  her.     To  you  yourself  I  came  to  tell  it. 

Trembling  the  while.    Can  nothing  clear  your  mind 

Of  your  mistake  ?    What  oath  can  reassure  you  ? 

By  heav'n  and  earth  and  all  the  pow'rs  of  nature — 
Theseus. — The  wicked  never  shrink  from  perjury. 

Cease,  cease,  and  spare  me  irksome  protestations, 

H  your  false  virtue  has  no  other  aid. 
Hippolytus. — Tho'  it  to  you  seem  false  and  insincere, 

Phaedra  has  secret  cause  to  know  it  true. 
Theseus. — Ah !  how  your  shamelessness  excites  my  wrath ! 
Hippolytus. — What  is  my  term  and  place  of  banishment  ? 
Theseus. — Were  you  beyond  the  Pillars  of  Alcides, 

Your  perjured  presence  w^ere  too  near  me  yet. 
Hippolytus. — What  friends  will  pity  me,  when  you  forsake 

And  think  me  guilty  of  a  crime  so  vile  ? 
Theseus. — Go,  look  you  out  for  friends  who  hold  in  honor 


PH^DRA  361 

Adultery  and  clap  their  hands  at  incest. 
Low,  lawless  traitors,  steep'd  in  infamy. 
The  fit  protectors  of  a  knave  like  you. 

HiPPOLYTUS. — Are  incest  and  adultery  the  words 

You  cast  at  me?    I  hold  my  tongue.    Yet  think 
What  mother  Phaedra  had ;  too  well  you  know 
Her  blood,  not  mine,  is  tainted  with  those  horrors. 

Theseus. — What !    Does  your  rage  before  my  eyes  lose  all 
Restraint  ?    For  the  last  time — out  of  my  sight  I 
Hence,  traitor !    Wait  not  till  a  father's  wrath 
Force  thee  away  'mid  general  execration. 

Scene  III. 

Theseus  [alofw], — ^Wretch!    Thou  must  meet  inevitable  ruin. 
Neptune  has  sworn  by  Styx — to  gods  themselves 
A  dreadful  oath — and  he  will  execute 
His  promise.    Thou  canst  not  escape  his  vengeance. 
I  loved  thee ;  and,  in  spite  of  thine  offence. 
My  heart  is  troubled  by  anticipation 
For  thee.    But  thou  hast  earn'd  thy  doom  too  well. 
Had  father  ever  greater  cause  for  rage  ? 
Just  gods,  who  see  the  grief  that  overwhelms  me. 
Why  was  I  cursed  with  such  a  wicked  son  ? 

Scene  IV. 
Phcodra,  Theseus. 

Ph^drA. — My  lord,  I  come  to  you,  fiU'd  with  just  dread. 
Your  voice  raised  high  in  anger  reach'd  mine  ears. 
And  much  I  fear  that  deeds  have  foUow'd  threats. 
Oh,  if  there  yet  is  time,  spare  your  own  offspring. 
Respect  your  race  and  blood,  I  do  beseech  you. 
Let  me  not  hear  that  blood  cry  from  the  ground ; 
Save  me  the  horror  and  perpetual  pain 
Of  having  caused  his  father's  hand  to  shed  it. 

Theseus. — No,  Madam,  from  that  stain  my  hand  is  free 
But,  for  all  that,  the  wretch  has  not  escaped  me. 
The  hand  of  an  Immortal  now  is  charged 


36a 


RACINE 


With  his  destruction.    'Tis  a  debt  that  Neptune 

Owes  me,  and  you  shall  be  avenged. 
Ph^dra. —  A  debt 

Owed  you  ?    Pray'rs  made  in  anger — 
Theseus. —  Never  fear 

That  they  will  fail.    Rather  join  yours  to  mine. 

In  all  their  blackness  paint  for  me  his  crimes, 

And  fan  my  tardy  passion  to  white  heat. 

But  yet  you  know  not  all  his  infamy ; 

His  rage  against  you  overflows  in  slanders ; 

Your  mouth,  he  says,  is  full  of  all  deceit. 

He  says  Aricia  has  his  heart  and  soul, 

That  her  alone  he  loves. 
Ph^dra. —  Aricia  ? 

Theseus. —  Ay, 

He  said  it  to  my  face :  an  idle  pretext ! 

A  trick  that  gulls  me  not !    Let  us  hope  Neptune 

Will  do  him  speedy  justice.    To  his  altars 

I  go,  to  urge  performance  of  his  oaths. 

Scene  V. 

Ph^dra  [alone] . — Ah,  he  is  gone !    What  tidings  struck  mine 


ears 


\ 


What  fire,  half  smother'd,  in  my  heart  revives? 

What  fatal  stroke  falls  like  a  thunderbolt  ? 

Stung  by  remorse  that  would  not  let  me  rest, 

I  tore  myself  out  of  CEnone's  arms, 

And  flew  to  help  Hippolytus  with  all 

My  soul  and  strength.    Who  knows  if  that  repentance 

Might  not  have  moved  me  to  accuse  myself? 

And,  if  my  voice  had  not  been  choked  with  shame, 

Perhaps  I  had  confess'd  the  frightful  truth. 

Hippolytus  can  feel,  but  not  for  me ! 

Aricia  has  his  heart,  his  plighted  troth. 

Ye  gods,  when,  deaf  to  all  my  sighs  and  tears, 

He  arm'd  his  eye  with  scorn,  his  brow  with  threats, 

I  deem'd  his  heart,  impregnable  to  love, 

Was  fortified  'gainst  all  my  sex  alike. 

And  yet  another  has  prevail'd  to  tame 


PHyEDRA  363 

His  pride,  another  has  secured  his  favor. 

Perhaps  he  has  a  heart  easily  melted ; 

I  am  the  only  one  he  cannot  bear ! 

And  shall  I  charge  myself  with  his  defence? 


Scene  VI. 

PhcBdra,  CEnone. 

Ph^^dra. — Know  you,  dear  Nurse,  what  I  have  learn'd  just 

now? 

CEnone. — No ;  but  I  come  in  truth  with  trembling  limbs. 
I  dreaded  with  what  purpose  you  went  forth, 
The  fear  of  fatal  madness  made  me  pale. 

Ph^^dra. — Who  would  have  thought  it,  Nurse  ?    I  had  a  rival. 

CEnone. — A  rival? 

Ph^dra. —  Yes,  he  loves.     I  cannot  doubt  it. 

This  wild  untamable  Hippolytus, 
Who  scorn'd  to  be  admired,  whom  lovers'  sighs 
Wearied,  this  tiger,  whom  I  fear'd  to  rouse, 
Fawns  on  a  hand  that  has  subdued  his  pride : 
Aricia  has  found  entrance  to  his  heart. 

CEnone. — Aricia  ? 

Ph-^dra. —  Ah!  anguish  as  yet  untried!  ^- 

For  what  new  tortures  am  I  still  reserved  ? 
All  I  have  undergone,  transports  of  passion, 
Longings  and  fears,  the  horrors  of  remorse. 
The  shame  of  being  spurn'd  with  contumely, 
Were  feeble  foretastes  of  my  present  torments. 
They  love  each  other !    By  what  secret  charm 
Have  they  deceived  me  ?    Where,  and  when,  and  how 
Met  they  ?    You  knew  it  all.    Why  was  I  cozen'd  ? 
You  never  told  me  of  those  stolen  hours 
Of  amorous  converse.    Have  they  oft  been  seen 
Talking  together?    Did  they  seek  the  shades 
Of  thickest  woods?    Alas !  full  freedom  had  they 
To  see  each  other.    Heav'n  approved  their  sighs ; 
They  loved  without  the  consciousness  of  guilt ; 
And  every  morning's  sun  for  them  shone  clear, 
While  I,  an  outcast  from  the  face  of  Nature, 


3^4 


RACINE 


Shunn'd  the  bright  day,  and  sought  to  hide  myself. 
Death  was  the  only  god  whose  aid  I  dared 
To  ask :  I  waited  for  the  grave's  release. 
Water'd  with  tears,  nourish'd  with  gall,  my  woe 
Was  all  too  closely  watch'd ;  I  did  not  dare 
To  weep  without  restraint.    In  mortal  dread 
Tasting  this  dangerous  solace,  I  disguised 
My  terror  'neath  a  tranquil  countenance. 
And  oft  had  I  to  check  my  tears,  and  smile. 

CEnone. — What  fruit  will  they  enjoy  of  their  vain  love  ? 
They  will  not  see  each  other  more. 

PH.EDRA. —  That  love 

Will  last  forever.    Even  while  I  speak. 
Ah,  fatal  thought,  they  laugh  to  scorn  the  madness 
Of  my  distracted  heart.    In  spite  of  exile 
That  soon  must  part  them,  with  a  thousand  oaths 
They  seal  yet  closer  union.    Can  I  suffer 
A  happiness,  CEnone,  which  insults  me  ? 
I  crave  your  pity.    She  must  be  destroy'd. 
My  husband's  wrath  against  a  hateful  stock 
Shall  be  revived,  nor  must  the  punishment 
Be  light :  the  sister's  guilt  passes  the  brothers'. 
I  will  entreat  him  in  my  jealous  rage. 

What  am  I  saying?     Have  I  lost  my  senses? 
Is  Phaedra  jealous,  and  will  she  implore 
Theseus  for  help  ?    My  husband  lives,  and  yet 
I  burn.    For  whom  ?    Whose  heart  is  this  I  claim 
As  mine  ?    At  every  word  I  say,  my  hair 
Stands  up  with  horror.    Guilt  henceforth  has  pass'd 
All  bounds.    Hypocrisy  and  incest  breathe 
At  once  thro'  all.    My  murderous  hands  are  ready 
To  spill  the  blood  of  guileless  innocence. 
Do  I  yet  live,  wretch  that  I  am,  and  dare 
To  face  this  holy  Sun  from  whom  I  spring? 
My  father's  sire  was  king  of  all  the  gods ; 
My  ancestors  fill  all  the  universe. 
Where  can  I  hide?    In  the  dark  realms  of  Pluto? 
But  there  my  father  holds  the  fatal  urn ; 
His  hand  awards  th'  irrevocable  doom : 
Minos  is  judge  of  all  the  ghosts  in  hell. 


PH.EDRA  3^5 

Ah !  how  his  awful  shade  will  start  and  shudder 

When  he  shall  see  his  daughter  brought  before  him, 

Forced  to  confess  sins  of  such  varied  dye, 

Crimes  it  may  be  unknown  to  hell  itself ! 

What  wilt  thou  say,  my  father,  at  a  sight 

So  dire  ?    I  think  I  see  thee  drop  the  urn, 

And,  seeking  some  unheard-of  punishment, 

Thyself  become  my  executioner. 

Spare  me !    A  cruel  goddess  has  destroy'd 

Thy  race ;  and  in  my  madness  recognize 

Her  wrath.    Alas !    My  aching  heart  has  reap'd 

No  fruit  of  pleasure  from  the  frightful  crime 

The  shame  of  which  pursues  me  to  the  grave, 

And  ends  in  torment  life-long  misery. 

CEnone. — Ah,  Madam,  pray  dismiss  a  groundless  dread : 
LxDok  less  severely  on  a  venial  error. 
You  love.    We  cannot  conquer  destiny. 
You  were  drawn  on  as  by  a  fatal  charm. 
Is  that  a  marvel  without  precedent 
Among  us  ?    Has  love  triumph'd  over  you, 
And  o'er  none  else  ?    Weakness  is  natural 
To  man.    A  mortal,  to  a  mortal's  lot 
Submit.    You  chafe  against  a  yoke  that  others 
Have  long  since  borne.     The  dwellers  in  Olympos, 
The  gods  themselves,  who  terrify  with  threats 
The  sins  of  men,  have  burn'd  with  lawless  fires. 

Phaedra. — What  words  are  these  I  hear  ?    What  counsel  this  ^ 
You  dare  to  give  me  ?    Will  you  to  the  end 
Pour  poison  in  mine  ears  ?    You  have  destroy'd  me.      ^ 
You  brought  me  back  when  I  should  else  have  quitted 
The  light  of  day,  made  me  forget  my  duty 
And  see  Hippolytus,  till  then  avoided. 
What  hast  thou  done  ?    Why  did  your  wicked  mouth 
With  blackest  lies  slander  his  blameless  life? 
Perhaps  you've  slain  him,  and  the  impious  pray'r 
Of  an  unfeeling  father  has  been  answer'd. 
No,  not  another  word  !    Go,  hateful  monster ; 
Away,  and  leave  me  to  my  piteous  fate. 
May  Heav'n  with  justice  pay  you  your  deserts! 
And  may  your  punishment  forever  be 


366  RACINE 

A  terror  to  all  those  who  would,  like  you, 
Nourish  with  artful  wiles  the  weaknesses 
Of  princes,  push  them  to  the  brink  of  ruin 
To  which  their  heart  inclines,  and  smooth  the  path 
Of  guilt.    Such  flatterers  doth  the  wrath  of  Heav'n 
Bestow  on  kings  as  its  most  fatal  gift. 
CEnone  [alone] . — O  gods !  to  serve  her  what  have  I  not  done  ? 
This  is  the  due  reward  that  I  have  won. 


ACT  FIFTH. 

Scene  I. 

Hippolytus,  Aricia. 

Aricia. — Can  you  keep  silent  in  this  mortal  peril  ? 

Your  father  loves  you.    Will  you  leave  him  thus 
Deceived  ?    If  in  your  cruel  heart  you  scorn 
My  tears,  content  to  see  me  nevermore, 
Go,  part  from  poor  Aricia ;  but  at  least, 
Going,  secure  the  safety  of  your  life. 
Defend  your  honor  from  a  shameful  stain. 
And  force  your  father  to  recall  his  pray'rs. 

There  yet  is  time.    Why  out  of  mere  caprice    

Leave  the  field  free  to  Phaedra's  calumnies? 
Let  Theseus  know  the  truth. 

Hippolytus. —  Could  I  say  more. 

Without  exposing  him  to  dire  disgrace? 
How  should  I  venture,  by  revealing  all, 
To  make  a  father's  brow  grow  red  with  shame  ? 
The  odious  mystery  to  you  alone 
Is  known.    My  heart  has  been  outpour'd  to  none 
Save  you  and  Heav'n.    I  could  not  hide  from  you 
(Judge  if  I  love  you),  all  I  fain  would  hide 
E'en  from  myself.    But  think  under  what  seal 
I  spoke.    Forget  my  words,  if  that  may  be ; 
And  never  let  so  pure  a  mouth  disclose 
This  dreadful  secret.    Let  us  trust  to  Heav'n 
My  vindication,  for  the  gods  are  just ; 


PHAEDRA  367 

For  their  own  honor  will  they  clear  the  guiltless ; 
Sooner  or  later  punish'd  for  her  crime, 
Phaedra  will  not  escape  the  shame  she  merits. 
I  ask  no  other  favor  than  your  silence ; 
In  all  besides  I  give  my  wrath  free  scope. 
Make  your  escape  from  this  captivity,       7 
Be  bold  to  bear  me  company  in  flight ;  j    ^ 
Linger  not  here  on  this  accursed  soil, 
Where  virtue  breathes  a  pestilential  air. 
To  cover  your  departure  take  advantage 
Of  this  confusion,  caused  by  my  disgrace. 
The  means  of  flight  are  ready,  be  assured ; 
You  have  as  yet  no  other  guards  than  mine. 
Pow'rful  defenders  will  maintain  our  quarrel ; 
Argos  spreads  open  arms,  and  Sparta  calls  us. 
Let  us  appeal  for  justice  to  our  friends. 
Nor  suffer  Phaedra,  in  a  common  ruin 
Joining  us  both,  to  hunt  us  from  the  throne, 
And  aggrandize  her  son  by  robbing  us. 
Embrace  this  happy  opportunity: 
What  fear  restrains  ?    You  seem  to  hesitate. 
Your  interest  alone  prompts  me  to  urge 
Boldness.     When  I  am  all  on  fire,  how  comes  it 
That  you  are  ice?    Fear  you  to  follow  then 
A  banish'd  man? 

Aricia. —  Ah,  dear  to  me  would  be 

Such  exile !    With  what  joy,  my  fate  to  yours 
United,  could  I  live,  by  all  the  world 
Forgotten !     But  not  yet  has  that  sweet  tie 
Bound  us  together.    How  then  can  I  steal 
Away  with  you?    I  know  the  strictest  honor 
Forbids  me  not  out  of  your  father's  hands 
To  free  myself ;  this  is  no  parent's  home. 
And  flight  is  lawful  when  one  flies  from  tyrants. 
But  you,  Sir,  love  me ;  and  my  virtue  shrinks^— 

HiPPOLYTUS. — No,  no,  your  reputation  is  to  me 
As  dear  as  to  yourself.    A  nobler  purpose 
Brings  me  to  you.    Fly  from  your  foes,  and  follow    _ 
A  husband.    Heav'n,  that  sends  us  these  misfortunes, 
Sets  free  from  human  instruments  the  pledge 


368 


RACINE 


Between  us.    Torches  do  not  always  light 
The  face  of  Hymen. 

At  the  gates  of  Troezen, 
'Mid  ancient  tombs  where  princes  of  my  race 
Lie  buried,  stands  a  temple  ne'er  approach'd 
By  perjurers,  where  mortals  dare  not  make 
False  oaths,  for  instant  punishment  befalls 
The  guilty.    Falsehood  knows  no  stronger  check 
Than  what  is  present  there — the  fear  of  death 
That  cannot  be  avoided.    Thither  then 
We'll  go,  if  you  consent,  and  swear  to  love 
Forever,  take  the  guardian  god  to  witness 
Our  solemn  vows,  and  his  paternal  care 
Entreat.    I  will  invoke  the  name  of  all 
The  holiest  Pow'rs ;  chaste  Dian,  and  the  Queen 
Of  Heav'n,  yea  all  the  gods  who  know  my  heart 
Will  guarantee  my  sacred  promises. 
Aricia. — The  King  draws  near.    Depart — make  no  delay. 
To  mask  my  flight,  I  linger  yet  one  moment. 
Go  you ;  and  leave  with  me  some  trusty  guide, 
To  lead  my  timid  footsteps  to  your  side. 

Scene  II. 

Theseus,  Aricia,  Ismene. 

Theseus, — Ye  gods,  throw  light  upon  my  troubled  mind, 

Show  me  the  truth  which  I  am  seeking  here. 
Aricia  [aside  to  Ismene]. — Get  ready,  dear  Ismene,  for  our 
flight. 

Scene  HI. 

Theseus,  Aricia. 

Theseus. — Your  color  comes  and  goes,  you  seem  confused, 
Madam !    What  business  had  my  son  with  you  ? 

Aricia. — Sire,  he  was  bidding  me  farewell  forever. 

Theseus. — Your  eyes,  it  seems,  can  tame  that  stubborn  pride ; 
And  the  first  sighs  he  breathes  are  paid  to  you. 

Aricia. — I  can't  deny  the  truth ;  he  has  not,  Sire, 


PH^DRA  369 

Inherited  your  hatred  and  injustice; 

He  did  not  treat  me  Uke  a  criminal. 
Theseus. — That  is  to  say,  he  swore  eternal  love. 

Do  not  rely  on  that  inconstant  heart ; 

To  others  has  he  sworn  as  much  before.        ^ 
Aricia. — He,  Sire? 
Theseus. — You  ought  to  check  his  roving  taste 

How  could  you  bear  a  partnership  so  vile  ? 
Aricia. — And  how  can  you  endure  that  vilest  slanders 

Should  make  a  life  so  pure  as  black  as  pitch? 

Have  you  so  little  knowledge  of  his  heart  ? 

Do  you  so  ill  distinguish  between  guilt 

And  innocence?    What  mist  before  your  eyes 

Blinds  them  to  virtue  so  conspicuous? 

Ah  !  'tis  too  much  to  let  false  tongues  defame  him. 

Repent ;  call  back  your  murderous  wishes,  Sire ; 

Fear,  fear  lest  Heav'n  in  its  severity 

Hate  you  enough  to  hear  and  grant  your  pray'rs. 

Oft  in  their  wrath  the  gods  accept  our  victims, 

And  oftentimes  chastise  us  with  their  gifts. 
Theseus. — No,  vainly  would  you  cover  up  his  guilt 

Your  love  is  blind  to  his  depravity. 

But  I  have  witness  irreproachable: 

Tears  have  I  seen,  true  tears,  that  may  be  trusted. 
Aricia. — Take  heed,  my  lord.    Your  hands  invincible 

Have  rid  the  world  of  monsters  numberless ; 

But  all  are  not  destroy'd,  one  you  have  left 

Alive — your  son  forbids  me  to  say  more. 

Knowing  with  what  respect  he  still  regards  you, 

I  should  too  much  distress  him  if  I  dared 

Complete  my  sentence.    I  will  imitate 

His  reverence,  and,  to  keep  silence,  leave  you. 

Scene  IV. 

Theseus  [alone]. — What  is  there  in  her  mind?    What  mean- 
ing lurks 
In  speech  begun  but  to  be  broken  short  ? 
Would  both  deceive  me  with  a  vain  pretence  ? 
Have  they  conspired  to  put  me  to  the  torture? 


J70  RACINE 

And  yet,  despite  my  stern  severity, 

What  plaintive  voice  cries  deep  within  my  heart? 

A  secret  pity  troubles  and  alarms  me. 

CEnone  shall  be  questioned  once  again, 

I  must  have  clearer  light  upon  this  crime. 

Guards,  bid  CEnone  come,  and  come  alone. 


Scene  V. 

Theseus,  Panope. 

Panope. — I  know  not  what  the  Queen  intends  to  do, 

But  from  her  agitation  dread  the  worst. 

Fatal  despair  is  painted  on  her  features ; 

Death's  pallor  is  already  in  her  face. 

CEnone,  shamed  and  driven  from  her  sight. 

Has  cast  herself  into  the  ocean  depths. 

None  knows  what  prompted  her  to  deed  so  rash ; 

And  now  the  waves  hide  her  from  us  forever. 
Theseus. — What  say  you  ? 
Panope. —  Her  sad  fate  seems  to  have  added 

Fresh  trouble  to  the  Queen's  tempestuous  soul. 

Sometimes,  to  soothe  her  secret  pain,  she  clasps 

Her  children  close,  and  bathes  them  with  her  tears ; 

Then  suddenly,  the  mother's  love  forgotten. 

She  thrusts  them  from  her  with  a  look  of  horror. 

She  wanders  to  and  fro  with  doubtful  steps ; 

Her  vacant  eye  no  longer  knows  us.    Thrice 

She  wrote,  and  thrice  did  she,  changing  her  mind, 

Destroy  the  letter  ere  'twas  well  begun. 

Vouchsafe  to  see  her,  Sire :  vouchsafe  to  help  her. 
Theseus. — Heav'ns !    Is  QEnone  dead,  and  Phaedra  bent 

On  dying  too?    Oh,  call  me  back  my  son! 

Let  him  defend  himself,  and  I  am  ready 

To  hear  him.    Be  not  hasty  to  bestow _ 

Thy  fatal  bounty,  Neptune ;  let  my  pray'rs 

Rather  remain  ever  unheard.    Too  soon 

I  lifted  cruel  hands,  believing  lips 

That  may  have  lied !    Ah  I    What  despair  may  follow ! 


PH^DRA  371 

Scene  VI. 

Theseus,  Theramenes. 

Theseus. — Theramenes,  is  't  thou  ?    Where  is  my  son  ? 

I  gave  him  to  thy  charge  from  tenderest  childhood. 

But  whence  these  tears  that  overflow  thine  eyes? 

How  is  it  with  my  son  ? 
Theramenes. —  Concern  too  late! 

Affection  vain !    Hippolytus  is  dead. 
Theseus. — Gods ! 
Theramenes. —        I  have  seen  the  flow'r  of  all  mankind 

Cut  off,  and  I  am  bold  to  say  that  none 

Deserved  it  less. 
Theseus. —  What!     My  son  dead!    When  I 

Was  stretching  out  my  arms  to  him,  has  Heav'n 

Hasten'd-his  end?    What  was  this  sudden  stroke? 
Theramenes. — Scarce    had  we   pass'd   out  of   the  gates   of 
Troezen, 

He  silent  in  his  chariot,  and  his  guards, 

Downcast  and  silent  too,  around  him  ranged ; 

To  the  Mycenian  road  he  turn'd  his  steeds, 

Then,  lost  in  thought,  allow'd  the  reins  to  He 

Loose  on  their  backs.    His  noble  chargers,  erst 

So  full  of  ardor  to  obey  his  voice, 

With  head  depress'd  and  melancholy  eye 

Seem'd  now  to  mark  his  sadness  and  to  share  it. 

A  frightful  cry,  that  issues  from  the  deep, 

With  sudden  discord  rends  the  troubled  air ;  ^ 

And  from  the  bosom  of  the  earth  a  groan  l^ 

Is  heard  in  answer  to  that  voice  of  terror.  j        . 

Our  blood  is  frozen  at  our  very  hearts  ; 

With  bristling  manes  the  list'ning  steeds  stand  still. 

Meanwhile  upon  the  watery  plain  there  rises 

A  mountain  billow  with  a  mighty  crest 

Of  foam,  that  shoreward  rolls,  and,  as  it  breaks, 

Before  our  eyes  vomits  a  furious  monster. 

With  formidable  horns  its  brow  is  arm'd, 

And  all  its  body  clothed  with  yellow  scales, 
»    In  front  a  savage  bull,  behind  a  dragon 


372 


RACINE 

Turning  and  twisting  in  impatient  rage. 
Its  long  continued  bellowings  make  the  shore 
Tremble ;   the  sky  seems  horror-struck  to  sec  it ; 
The  earth  with  terror  quakes ;  its  poisonous  breath 
Infects  the  air.    The  wave  that  brought  it  ebbs 
In  fear.    All  fly,  forgetful  of  the  courage 
That  cannot  aid,  and  in  a  neighboring  temple 

Take  refuge — all  save  bold  HippolytuSj 

A  hero's  worthy  son,  he  stays  his  steeds, 

Seizes  his  darts,  and,  rushing  forward,  hurls 

A  missile  with  sure  aim  that  wounds  the  monster 

Deep  in  the  flank.     With  rage  and  pain  it  springs 

E'en  to  the  horses'  feet,  and,  roaring,  falls, 

Writhes  in  the  dust,  and  shows  a  fiery  throat 

That  covers  them  with  flames,  and  blood,  and  smoke. 

Fear  lends  them  wings ;  deaf  to  his  voice  for  once. 

And  heedless  of  the  curb,  they  onward  fly. 

Their  master  wastes  his  strength  in  efforts  vain; 

With  foam  and  blood  each  courser's  bit  is  red. 

Some  say  a  god,  amid  this  wild  disorder, 

Is  seen  with  goads  pricking  their  dusty  flanks. 

O'er  jagged  rocks  they  rush  urged  on  by  terror ; 

Crash !  goes  the  axle-tree.    Th'  intrepid  youth 

Sees  his  car  broken  up,  flying  to  pieces ; 

He  falls  himself,  entangled  in  the  reins. 

Pardon  my  grief.     That  cruel  spectacle 

Will  be  for  me  a  source  of  endless  tears. 

I  saw  thy  hapless  son,  I  saw  him.  Sire, 

Dragg'd  by  the  horses  that  his  hands  had  fed, 

Pow'rless  to  check  their  fierce  career,  his  voice 

But  adding  to  their  fright,  his  body  soon 

One  mass  of  wounds.    Our  cries  of  anguish  fill 

The  plain.    At  last  they  slacken  their  swift  pace, 

Then  stop,  not  far  from  those  old  tombs  that  mark 

Where  lie  the  ashes  of  his  royal  sires. 

Panting  I  thither  run,  and  after  me 

His  guard,  along  the  track  stain'd  with  fresh  blood 

That  reddens  all  the  rocks ;  caught  in  the  briers 

Locks  of  his  hair  hang  dripping,  gory  spoils  ! 

I  come,  I  call  him.    Stretching  forth  his  hand, 


PH/EDRA  373 

He  opes  his  dying  eyes,  soon  closed  again. 

"  The  gods  have  robb'd  me  of  a  guiltless  life,"  _ 

I  hear  him  say :  "  Take  care  of  sad  Aricia 

When  I  am  dead.    Dear  friend,  if  e'er  my  father 

Mourn,  undeceived,  his  son's  unhappy  fate 

Falsely  accused ;  to  give  my  spirit  peace. 

Tell  him  to  treat  his  captive  tenderly, 

And  to  restore — "     With  that  the  hero's  breath 

Fails,  and  a  mangled  corpse  lies  in  my  arms, 

A  piteous  object,  trophy  of  the  wrath 

Of  Heav'n — so  changed,  his  father  would  not  know  him. 

Theseus. — Alas,  my  son !    Dear  hope  forever  lost ! 

The  ruthless  gods  have  served  me  but  too  well. 
For  what  a  life  of  anguish  and  remorse 
Am  I  reserved ! 

Theramenes. — Aricia  at  that  instant, 

Flying  from  you,  comes  timidly,  to  take  him 
For  husband,  there,  in  presence  of  the  gods. 
Thus  drawing  nigh,  she  sees  the  grass  all  red 
And  reeking,  sees  (sad  sight  for  lover's  eyes!) 
Hippolytus  stretch'd  there,  pale  and  disfigured. 
But,  for  a  time  doubtful  of  her  misfortune. 
Unrecognized  the  hero  she  adores, 
She  looks,  and  asks — "Where  is  Hippolytus?" 
Only  too  sure  at  last  that  he  lies  there 
Before  her,  with  sad  eyes  that  silently 
Reproach  the  gods,  she  shudders,  groans,  and  falls, 
Swooning  and  all  but  lifeless,  at  his  feet. 
Ismene,  all  in  tears,  kneels  down  beside  her. 
And  calls  her  back  to  life — life  that  is  nought 
But  sense  of  pain.    And  I,  to  whom  this  light 
Is  darkness  now,  come  to  discharge  the  duty 
The  hero  has  imposed  on  me,  to  tell  thee 
His  last  request — a  melancholy  task. 
But  hither  comes  his  mortal  enemy. 


374  RACINE 

Scene  VII. 

Theseus,  Phcedra,  Theramenes,  Panope,  Guards. 

Theseus. — Madam,  you've  triumph'd,  and  my  son  is  kill'd ! 
Ah,  but  what  room  have  I  for  fear!    How  justly 
Suspicion  racks  me  that  in  blaming  him 
I  err'd !    But  he  is  dead ;  accept  your  victim ; 
Rightly  or  wrongly  slain,  let  your  heart  leap 
For  joy.    My  eyes  shall  be  forever  blind : 
Since  you  accuse  him,  I'll  believe  him  guilty. 
His  death  afifords  me  cause  enough  for  tears, 
Without  a  foolish  search  for  further  light 
Which,  pow'rless  to  restore  him  to  my  grief, 
Might  only  serve  to  make  me  more  unhappy. 
Far  from  this  shore  and  far  from  you  I'll  fly, 
For  here  the  image  of  my  mangled  son 
Would  haunt  my  memory  and  drive  me  mad. 
From  the  w^hole  world  I  fain  would  banish  me, 
For  all  the  world  seems  to  rise  up  in  judgment 
Against  me ;  and  my  very  glory  weights 
My  punishment ;  for,  were  my  name  less  known, 
'Twere  easier  to  hide  me.    All  the  favors 
The  gods  have  granted  me  I  mourn  and  hate. 

Nor  will  I  importune  them  with  vain  pray'rs 

Henceforth  forever.    Give  me  what  they  may, 
What  they  have  taken  will  all  else  outweigh. 

pHiEDRA. — Theseus,  I  cannot  hear  you  and  keep  silence : 
I  must  repair  the  wrong  that  he  has  suffer'd — 
Your  son  was  innocent. 

Theseus. —  Unhappy  father! 

And  it  was  on  your  word  that  I  condemn'd  him ! 
Think  you  such  cruelty  can  be  excused — 

PHiEDRA. — Moments  to  me  are  precious ;  hear  me,  Theseus. 
'Twas  I  who  cast  an  eye  of  lawless  passion 
On  chaste  and  dutiful  Hippolytus. 
Heav'n  in  my  bosom  kindled  baleful  fire, 
And  vile  CEnone's  cunning  did  the  rest; 
She  fear'd  Hippolytus,  knowing  my  madness. 
Would  make  that  passion  known  which  he  regarded 


PH^DRA  375 

With  horror ;  so  advantage  of  my  weakness 
She  took,  and  hastened  to  accuse  him  first. 
For  that  she  has  been  punish'd,  tho'  too  mildly; 
Seeking  to  shun  my  wrath  she  cast  herself 
Beneath  the  waves.    The  sword  ere  now  had  cut 
My  thread  of  life,  but  slander'd  innocence 
Made  its  cry  heard,  and  I  resolved  to  die 
In  a  more  lingering  way,  confessing  first 
My  penitence  to  you.    A  poison,  brought 
To  Athens  by  Medea,  runs  thro'  my  veins. 
Already  in  my  heart  the  venom  works. 
Infusing  there  a  strange  and  fatal  chill ; 
Already  as  thro'  thickening  mists  I  see 
The  spouse  to  whom  my  presence  is  an  outrage ; 
Death,  from  mine  eyes  veiling  the  light  of  heav'n, 
Restores  its  purity  that  they  defiled, 

pANdPE, — She  dies,  my  lord ! 

ThepEus. —  Would  that  the  memory 

Of  her  disgraceful  deed  could  perish  with  her  I 
Ah,  disabused  too  late !    Come,  let  us  go, 
And  with  the  blood  of  mine  unhappy  son 
Mingle  our  tears,  clasping  his  dear  remains, 
In  deep  repentance  for  a  pray'r  detested.  i 

Let  him  be  honor'd  as  he  well  deserves ;  ' 

And,  to  appease  his  sore  offended  ghost. 
Be  her  near  kinsmen's  guilt  whate'er  it  may, 
Aricia  shall  be  held  my  daughter  from  to-day. 


Classics.     Vol.  36— Q 


SHE    STOOPS    TO    CONQUER 


BY 


OLIVER    GOLDSMITH 


DRAMATIS    PERS0N;E 

Sir  Charles  Marlow  and 

Young  Marlow  (his  Son). 

Hardcastle. 

Hastings. 

Tony  Lumpkin. 

DiGGORY. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle. 
Miss  Hardcastle. 
Miss  Neville. 
Maid,  Landlords,  Servants. 


PROLOGUE 

By  David  Garrick,  Esq. 

Excuse  me,  sirs,  I  pray — I  can't  yet  speak — 
I'm  crying  now — and  have  been  all  the  week ! 
'Tis  not  alone  this  mourning  suit,  good  masters ; 
I've  that  within — for  which  there  are  no  plasters ! 
Pray  would  you  know  the  reason  why  I'm  crying? 
The  Comic  muse,  long  sick,  is  now  a-dying! 
And  if  she  goes,  my  tears  will  never  stop ; 
For  as  a  player,  I  can't  squeeze  out  one  drop : 
I  am  undone,  that's  all — shall  lose  my  bread — 
I'd  rather — but  that's  nothing — lose  my  head. 
When  the  sweet  maid  is  laid  upon  the  bier, 
Shuter  and  I  shall  be  chief  mourners  here. 
To  her  a  mawkish  drab  of  spurious  breed, 
Who  deals  in  sentimentals  will  succeed  ! 
Poor  Ned  and  I  are  dead  to  all  intents, 
We  can  as  soon  speak  Greek  as  sentiments ! 
Both  nervous  grown,  to  keep  our  spirits  up, 
We  now  and  then  take  down  a  hearty  cup. 
What  shall  we  do? — If  Comedy  forsake  us! 
They'll  turn  us  out,  and  no  one  else  will  take  us. 
But  why  can't  I  be  moral  ? — let  me  try — 
My  heart  thus  pressing — fix'd  my  face  and  eye — 
With  a  sententious  look,  that  nothing  means 
(Faces  are  blocks,  in  sentimental  scenes), 
Thus  I  begin — All  is  not  gold  that  glitters. 
Pleasure  seems  sweet,  but  proves  a  glass  of  bitters. 
When  ignorance  enters,  folly  is  at  hand  ; 
Learning  is  better  far  than  house  and  land. 
Let  not  your  virtue  trip,  who  trips  may  stumble, 
And  virtue  is  not  virtue  if  she  tumble. 

379 


380  GOLDSMITH 

I  give  it  up — morals  won't  do  for  me ; 
To  make  you  laugh  I  must  play  tragedy. 
One  hope  remains — hearing  the  maid  was  ill, 
A  doctor  comes  this  night  to  show  his  skill. 
To  cheer  her  heart,  and  give  your  muscles  motion. 
He,  in  five  draughts  prepar'd,  presents  a  potion : 
A  kind  of  magic  charm — for  be  assur'd. 
If  you  will  swallow  it,  the  maid  is  cur'd. 
But  desperate  the  Doctor,  and  her  case  is. 
If  you  reject  the  dose,  and  make  wry  faces. 
This  truth  he  boasts,  will  boast  it  while  he  lives. 
No  poisonous  drugs  are  mix'd  in  what  he  gives ; 
Should  he  succeed,  you'll  give  him  his  degree ; 
If  not,  within  he  will  receive  no  fee ! 
The  college  you,  must  his  pretensions  back. 
Pronounce  him  regular,  or  dub  him  quack.* 

*  The  lines  of  the  Prologue  may  be  spoken  (by  any  of  the  male  characters)  as  an  intro- 
duction to  the  comedy.  The  speaker  should  be  dressed  in  black,  and,  holding  a  hand- 
kercliief— wliich  is  occasionally  pressed  to  the  eyes— assume  an  expression  of  deep  grief 
and  concern. 


SHE  STOOPS  TO   CONQUER 

ACT   FIRST 
Scene  I. — A  Chamber  in  Hardcastle's  old-fashioned  House 

Enter  Mrs.  Hardcastle  and  Mr.  Hardcastle. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  I  vow,  Mr.  Hardcastle,  you're  very  partic- 
ular. Is  there  a  creature  in  the  whole  country,  but  our- 
selves, that  does  not  take  a  trip  to  town  now  and  then,  to 
rub  off  the  rust  a  little  ?  There's  the  two  Miss  Hoggs,  and 
our  neighbor,  Mrs.  Grigsby,  go  to  take  a  month's  polishing 
every  winter. 

Hardcastle.  Ay,  and  bring  back  vanity  and  affectation  to  last 
them  the  whole  year.  I  wonder  why  London  cannot  keep 
its  own  fools  at  home.  In  my  time,  the  follies  of  the  town 
crept  slowly  among  us,  but  now  they  travel  faster  than  a 
stage-coach.  Its  fopperies  come  down,  not  only  as  inside 
passengers,  but  in  the  very  basket. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  Ay,  your  times  were  fine  times  indeed ;  you 
have  been  telling  us  of  them  for  many  a  long  year.  Here 
we  live  in  an  old  rumbling  mansion,  that  looks  for  all  the 
world  like  an  inn,  but  that  we  never  see  company.  Our 
best  visitors  are  old  Mrs.  Oddfish,  the  curate's  wife,  and 
little  Cripplegate,  the  lame  dancing-master:  and  all  our 
entertainment  your  old  stories  of  Prince  Eugene  and  the 
Duke  of  Marlborough.  I  hate  such  old-fashioned  trum- 
pery. 

Hardcastle.  And  I  love  it.  I  love  everything  that's  old :  old 
friends,  old  times,  old  manners,  old  books,  old  wine ;  and, 
I  believe,  Dorothy  [taking  her  hand]^  you'll  own  I  have 
been  pretty  fond  of  an  old  wife. 

38x 


38t  GOLDSMITH 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  Lord,  Mr.  Hardcastle,  you're  forever  at 
your  Dorothys  and  your  old  wifes.  You  may  be  a  Darby, 
but  I'll  be  no  Joan,  I  promise  you.  I'm  not  so  old  as  you'd 
make  me,  by  more  than  one  good  year.  Add  twenty  to 
twenty,  and  make  money  of  that. 

Hardcastle.  Let  me  see ;  twenty  added  to  twenty,  makes  just 
fifty  and  seven ! 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  It's  false,  Mr.  Hardcastle :  I  was  but  twenty 
when  I  was  brought  to  bed  of  Tony,  that  I  had  by  Mr. 
Lumpkin,  my  first  husband ;  and  he's  not  come  to  years  of 
discretion  yet. 

Hardcastle.  Nor  ever  will,  I  dare  answer  for  him.  Ay,  you 
have  taught  him  finely ! 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  No  matter,  Tony  Lumpkin  has  a  good  for- 
tune. My  son  is  not  to  live  by  his  learning.  I  don't  think 
a  boy  wants  much  learning  to  spend  fifteen  hundred  a  year. 

Hardcastle.  Learning,  quotha !  A  mere  composition  of  tricks 
and  mischief ! 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  Humor,  my  dear:  nothing  but  humor. 
Come,  Mr.  Hardcastle,  you  must  allow  the  boy  a  little 
humor. 

Hardcastle.  I'd  sooner  allow  him  a  horse-pond!  If  burning 
the  footmen's  shoes,  frightening  the  maids,  and  worrying 
the  kittens,  be  humor,  he  has  it.  It  was  but  yesterday  he 
fastened  my  wig  to  the  back  of  my  chair,  and  when  I  went 
to  make  a  bow,  I  popped  my  bald  head  in  Mrs.  Frizzle's 
face! 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  And  am  I  to  blame?  The  poor  boy  was 
always  too  sickly  to  do  any  good.  A  school  would  be  his 
death.  When  he  comes  to  be  a  little  stronger,  who  knows 
what  a  year  or  two's  Latin  may  do  for  him  ? 

Hardcastle.  Latin  for  him!  A  cat  and  fiddle!  No,  no,  the 
ale-house  and  the  stable  are  the  only  schools  he'll  ever  go  to  1 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  Well,  we  must  not  snub  the  poor  boy  now, 
for  I  believe  we  shan't  have  him  long  among  us.  Anybody 
that  looks  in  his  face  may  see  he's  consumptive. 

Hardcastle.  Ay,  if  growing  too  fat  be  one  of  the  symptoms. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  He  coughs  sometimes. 

Hardcastle.  Yes,  when  his  liquor  goes  the  wrong  way. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  I'm  actually  afraid  of  his  lungs. 


SHE   STOOPS  TO   CONQUER  383 

Hardcastle.  And  truly,  so  am  I;  for  he  sometimes  whoops 
hke  a  speaking-trumpet — [Tony  hallooing  behind  the 
scenes].  O,  there  he  goes — a  very  consumptive  figure, 
truly  1 

Enter  Tony,  crossing  the  stage. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  Tony,  where  are  you  going,  my  charmer? 
Won't  you  give  papa  and  I  a  little  of  your  company,  lovey  ? 

Tony.  I'm  in  haste,  mother,  I  cannot  stay. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  You  shan't  venture  out  this  raw  evenmg, 
my  dear :  You  look  most  shockingly. 

Tony.  I  can't  stay,  I  tell  you.  The  Three  Pigeons  expects  me 
down  every  moment.    There's  some  fun  going  forward. 

Hardcastle.  Ay ;  the  ale-house,  the  old  place ;   I  thought  so. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  A  low,  paltry  set  of  fellows. 

Tony.  Not  so  low,  neither.  There's  Dick  Muggins  the  excise- 
man, Jack  Slang  the  horse  doctor,  Little  Aminadab  that 
grinds  the  music  box,  and  Tom  Twist  that  spins  the  pewter 
platter. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  Pray,  my  dear,  disappoint  them  for  one 
night,  at  least. 

Tony.  As  for  disappointing  them,  I  should  not  much  mind; 
but  I  can't  abide  to  disappoint  myself! 

Mrs.  Hardcastle  [detaining  him].  You  shan't  go. 

Tony.  I  will,  I  tell  you. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  I  say  you  shan't. 

Tony.  We'll  see  which  is  strongest,  you  or  I. 

[Exit,  hauling  her  out. 

Hardcastle.  Ay,  there  goes  a  pair  that  only  spoil  each  other. 
But  is  not  the  whole  age  in  a  combination  to  drive  sense  and 
discretion  out  of  doors?  There's  my  pretty  darling  Kate; 
the  fashions  of  the  times  have  almost  infected  her  too.  By 
living  a  year  or  two  in  town,  she  is  as  fond  of  gauze,  and 
French  frippery,  as  the  best  of  them. 

Enter  Miss  Hardcastle. 

Hardcastle.  Blessings  on  my  pretty  innocence !  Dressed  out 
as  usual,  my  Kate !  Goodness !  What  a  quantity  of  super- 
fluous silk  hast  thou  got  about  thee,  girll    I  could  never 


384  GOLDSMITH 

teach  the  fools  of  this  age,  that  the  indigent  world  could 
be  clothed  out  of  the  trimmings  of  the  vain. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  You  know  our  agreement,  sir.  You  allow 
me  the  morning  to  receive  and  pay  visits,  and  to  dress  in 
my  own  manner;  and  in  the  evening,  I  put  on  my  house- 
wife's dress,  to  please  you. 

Hardcastle.  Well,  remember,  I  insist  on  the  terms  of  our 
agreement ;  and,  by  the  bye,  I  believe  I  shall  have  occasion 
to  try  your  obedience  this  very  evening. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  I  protest,  sir,  I  don't  comprehend  your 
meaning. 

Hardcastle.  Then,  to  be  plain  with  you,  Kate,  I  expect  the 
young  gentleman  I  have  chosen  to  be  your  husband  from 
town  this  very  day.  I  have  his  father's  letter,  in  which  he 
informs  me  his  son  is  set  out,  and  that  he  intends  to  follow 
himself  shortly  after. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  Indeed!  I  wish  I  had  known  something 
of  this  before.  Bless  me,  how  shall  I  behave  ?  It's  a  thou- 
sand to  one  I  shan't  like  him ;  our  meeting  will  be  so 
formal,  and  so  like  a  thing  of  business,  that  I  shall  find  no 
room  for  friendship  or  esteem. 

Hardcastle.  Depend  upon  it,  child,  I'll  never  control  your 
choice;  but  Mr.  Marlow,  whom  I  have  pitched  upon,  is 
the  son  of  my  old  friend.  Sir  Charles  Marlow,  of  whom  you 
have  heard  me  talk  so  often.  The  young  gentleman  has 
been  bred  a  scholar,  and  is  designed  for  an  employment  in 
the  service  of  his  country.  I  am  told  he's  a  man  of  an 
excellent  understanding. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  Is  he  ? 

Hardcastle.  Very  generous. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  I  believe  I  shall  like  him. 

Hardcastle.  Young  and  brave. 

Miss  Hardcastle,  I'm  sure  I  shall  like  him. 

Hardcastle.  And  very  handsome. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  My  dear  papa,  say  no  more  [kissing  his 
hand],  he's  mine,  I'll  have  him! 

Hardcastle.  And,  to  crown  all,  Kate,  he's  one  of  the  most  bash- 
ful and  reserved  young  fellows  in  all  the  world. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  Eh !  you  have  frozen  me  to  death  again. 
That  word  reserved  has  undone  all  the  rest  of  his  accom- 


SHE  STOOPS  TO   CONQUER  385 

plishments.  A  reserved  lover,  it  is  said,  always  makes  a 
suspicious  husband. 

Hardcastle.  On  the  contrary,  modesty  seldom  resides  in  a 
breast  that  is  not  enriched  with  nobler  virtues.  It  was  the 
very  feature  in  his  character  that  first  struck  me. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  He  must  have  tpore  striking  features  to 
catch  me,  I  promise  you.  However,  if  he  be  so  young,  so 
handsome,  and  so  everything,  as  you  mention,  I  believe 
he'll  do  still.    I  think  I'll  have  him. 

Hardcastle.  Ay,  Kate,  but  there  is  still  an  obstacle.  It  is 
more  than  an  even  wager,  he  may  not  have  you. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  My  dear  papa,  why  will  you  mortify  one 
so? — Well,  if  he  refuses,  instead  of  breaking  my  heart  at 
his  indifference,  I'll  only  break  my  glass  for  its  flattery,  set 
my  cap  to  some  newer  fashion,  and  look  out  for  some  less 
difficult  admirer. 

Hardcastle.  Bravely  resolved!  In  the  meantime  I'll  go  pre- 
pare the  servants  for  his  reception ;  as  we  seldom  see  com- 
pany, they  want  as  much  training  as  a  company  of  re- 
cruits the  first  day's  muster.  [Exit. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  Lud,  this  news  of  papa's  puts  me  all  in  a 
flutter.  Young,  handsome;  these  he  put  last;  but  I  put 
them  foremost.  Sensible,  good-natur'd ;  I  like  all  that. 
But  then,  reserved  and  sheepish,  that's  much  against  him. 
Yet  can't  he  be  cured  of  his  timidity,  by  being  taught  to  be 
proud  of  his  wife?  Yes,  and  can't  I — But  I  vow  I'm  dis- 
posing of  the  husband  before  I  have  secured  the  lover ! 

Enter  Miss  Neville. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  I'm  glad  you're  come,  Neville,  my  dear. 
Tell  me,  Constance,  how  do  I  look  this  evening?  Is  there 
anything  whimsical  about  me?  Is  it  one  of  my  well-look- 
ing days,  child  ?    Am  I  in  face  to-day  ? 

Miss  Neville.  Perfectly,  my  dear.  Yet,  now  I  look  again — 
bless  me! — sure  no  accident  has  happened  among  the 
canary  birds  or  the  goldfishes?  Has  your  brother  or  the 
cat  been  meddling?  Or  has  the  last  novel  been  too  mov- 
ing? 

Miss  Hardcastle.  No;  nothing  of    all  this.     I  have    been 


386  GOLDSMITH 

threatened — I  can  scarce  get  it  out — I  have  been  threat- 
ened with  a  lover! 

Miss  Neville.  And  his  name 

Miss  Hardcastle.  Is  Marlow. 

Miss  Neville.  Indeed ! 

Miss  Hardcastle.  The  son  of  Sir  Charles  Marlow. 

Miss  Neville.  As  I  live,  the  most  intimate  friend  of  Mr. 
Hastings,  my  admirer.  They  are  never  asunder.  I  be- 
lieve you  must  have  seen  him  when  we  lived  in  town. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  Never. 

Miss  Neville.  He's  a  very  singular  character,  I  assure  you. 
Among  women  of  reputation  and  virtue,  he  is  the  modest- 
est  man  alive;  but  his  acquaintance  give  him  a  very  dif- 
ferent character  among  creatures  of  another  stamp:  you 
understand  me? 

Miss  Hardcastle.  An  odd  character,  indeed !  I  shall  never  be 
able  to  manage  him.  What  shall  I  do?  Pshaw,  think  no 
more  of  him,  but  trust  to  occurrences  for  success.  But 
how  goes  on  your  own  affair,  my  dear  ?  Has  my  mother 
been  courting  you  for  my  brother  Tony,  as  usual  ? 

Miss  Neville.  I  have  just  come  from  one  of  our  agreeable 
tete-d-tetes.  She  has  been  saying  a  hundred  tender  things, 
and  setting  off  her  pretty  monster  as  the  very  pink  of  per- 
fection. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  And  her  partiality  is  such,  that  she  actually 
thinks  him  so.  A  fortune  like  yours  is  no  small  temptation. 
Besides,  as  she  has  the  sole  management  of  it,  I'm  not 
surprised  to  see  her  unwilling  to  let  it  go  out  of  the 
family. 

Miss  Neville.  A  fortune  like  mine,  which  chiefly  consists  in 
jewels,  is  no  such  mighty  temptation.  But,  at  any  rate,  if 
my  dear  Hastings  be  but  constant,  I  make  no  doubt  to  be 
too  hard  for  her  at  last.  However,  I  let  her  suppose  that 
I  am  in  love  with  her  son,  and  she  never  once  dreams  that 
my  affections  are  fixed  upon  another. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  My  good  brother  holds  out  stoutly.  I  could 
almost  love  him  for  hating  you  so. 

Miss  Neville.  It  is  a  good-natur'd  creature  at  bottom,  and  I'm 
sure  would  wish  to  see  me  married  to  anybody  but  himself. 
But  my  aunt's  bell  rings  for  our  afternoon's  walk  through 


SHE  STOOPS   TO   CONQUER  387 

the  improvements.    Allans.    Courage  is  necessary,  as  our 
affairs  are  critical. 
Miss  Hardcastle.  Would  it  were  bedtime  and  all  were  well. 

[Exeunt. 


Scene  II. — An  Ale-house  Room 

'Several  shabby  fellows,  with  punch  and  tobacco.  Tony  at  the 
head  of  the  table,  a  little  higher  than  the  rest:  a  mallet  in 
his  hand. 

Omnes.  Hurrea,  hurrea,  hurrea,  bravo! 

First  Fellow.  Now,  gentlemen,  silence    for  a  song.      The 

'Squire  is  going  to  knock  himself  down  for  a  song. 
Omnes.  Ay,  a  song,  a  song. 
Tony.  Then  I'll  sing  you,  gentlemen,  a  song  I  made  upon  this 

ale-house,  the  Three  Pigeons. 

SONG. 

Let  school-masters  puzzle  their  brain, 

With  grammar,  and  nonsense,  and  learning ; 
Good  liquor,  I  stoutly  maintain, 

Gives  genus  a  better  discerning ; 
Let  them  brag  of  their  heathenish  Gods, 

Their  Lethes,  their  Styxes,  and  Stygians; 
Their  Quis,  and  their  Qu?es,  and  their  Quods, 

They're  all  but  a  parcel  of  Pigeons. 

Toroddle,  toroddle,  toroll ! 

When  Methodist  preachers  come  down, 

A-preaching  that  drinking  is  sinful, 
I'll  wager  the  rascals  a  crown, 

They  always  preach  best  with  a  skinful. 
But  when  you  come  down  with  your  pence, 

For  a  slice  of  their  scurvy  religion. 
I'll  leave  it  to  all  men  of  sense. 

But  you,  my  good  friend,  are  the  pigeon. 
Toroddle,  toroddle,  toroll ! 

Then  come,  put  the  jorum  about. 

And  let  us  be  merry  and  clever. 
Our  hearts  and  our  liquors  are  stout, 

Here's  the  Three  Jolly  Pigeons  for  ever. 


388  GOLDSMITH 

Let  some  cry  up  woodcock  or  hare, 
Your  bustards,  your  ducks,  and  your  widgeons; 

But  of  all  the  birds  in  the  air. 
Here's  a  health  to  the  Three  Jolly  Pigeons. 
Toroddle,  toroddle,  toroll ! 


Omnes.  Bravo,  bravo! 

First  Fellow.  The  'Squire  has  got  spunk  in  him. 

Second  Fellow.  I  loves  to  hear  him  sing,  bekeays  he  never 
gives  us  nothing  that's  low. 

Third  Fellow.  O  d — n  anything  that's  low,  I  cannot  bear  it ! 

Fourth  Fellow.  The  genteel  thing  is  the  genteel  thing  at  any 
time.  If  so  be  that  a  gentleman  bees  in  a  concatenation 
accordingly. 

Third  Fellow.  I  like  the  maxum  of  it,  Master  Muggins. 
What,  though  I  am  obligated  to  dance  a  bear,  a  man  may 
be  a  gentleman  for  all  that.  May  this  be  my  poison  if  my 
bear  ever  dances  but  to  the  very  genteelest  of  tunes — 
"  Water  Parted,"  or  the  minuet  in  "  Ariadne." 

Second  Fellow.  What  a  pity  it  is  the  'Squire  is  not  come  to 
his  own.  It  would  be  well  for  all  the  publicans  within  ten 
miles  round  of  him. 

Tony.  Ecod,  and  so  it  would,  Master  Slang.  I'd  then  show 
what  it  was  to  keep  choice  of  company. 

Second  Fellow.  O,  he  takes  after  his  own  father  for  that. 
To  be  sure,  old  'Squire  Lumpkin  was  the  finest  gentleman 
I  ever  set  my  eyes  on.  For  winding  the  straight  horn,  or 
beating  a  thicket  for  a  hare  or  a  wench,  he  never  had  his 
fellow.  It  was  a  saying  in  the  place,  that  he  kept  the  best 
horses,  dogs,  and  girls  in  the  whole  country. 

Tony.  Ecod,  and  when  I'm  of  age  I'll  be  no  bastard,  I  promise 
you.  I  have  been  thinking  of  Bet  Bouncer  and  the  mill- 
er's gray  mare  to  begin  with.  But  come,  my  boys,  drink 
about  and  be  merry,  for  you  pay  no  reckoning.  Well, 
Stingo,  what's  the  matter? 

Enter  Landlord. 

Landlord.  There  be  two  gentlemen  in  a  post-chaise  at  the 
door.  They  have  lost  their  way  upo'  the  forest ;  and  they 
are  talking  something  about  Mr.  Hardcastlc. 


SHE   STOOPS   TO   CONQUER  389 

Tony.  As  sure  as  can  be,  one  of  them  must  be  the  gentleman 
that's  coming  down  to  court  my  sister.  Do  they  seem  to  be 
Londoners  ? 

Landlord.  I  believe  they  may.  They  look  woundily  like 
Frenchmen. 

Tony.  Then  desire  them  to  step  this  way,  and  I'll  set  them 
right  in  a  twinkling.  [Exit  Landlord.]  Gentlemen,  as 
they  mayn't  be  good  enough  company  for  you,  step  down 
for  a  moment,  and  I'll  be  with  you  in  the  squeezing  of  a 
lemon.  [Exeunt  mob. 

Tony.  Father-in-law  has  been  calling  me  whelp,  and  hound, 
this  half  year.  Now,  if  I  pleased,  I  could  be  so  revenged 
upon  the  old  grumbletonian.  But  then  I'm  afraid — afraid 
of  what  ?  I  shall  soon  be  worth  fifteen  hundred  a  year,  and 
let  him  frighten  me  out  of  that  if  he  can ! 

Enter  Landlord,  conducting  Marlow  and  Hastings. 

Marlow.  What  a  tedious  uncomfortable  day  have  we  had  of 

it !    We  were  told  it  was  but  forty  miles  across  the  country, 

and  we  have  come  above  threescore ! 
Hastings.  And  all,  Marlow,  from  that  unaccountable  reserve 

of  yours,  that  would  not  let  us  inquire  more  frequently  on 

the  way. 
Marlow.  I  own,  Hastings,  I  am  unwilling  to  lay  myself  under 

an  obligation  to  every  one  I  meet ;    and  often  stand  the 

chance  of  an  unmannerly  answer. 
Hastings.  At  present,  however,  we  are  not  likely  to  receive 

any  answer. 
Tony.  No  offence,  gentlemen.     But  I'm  told  you  have  been 

inquiring  for  one  Mr.  Hardcastle,  in  these  parts.    Do  you 

know  what  part  of  the  country  you  are  in  ? 
Hastings.  Not  in  the  least,  sir,  but  should  thank  you  for  in- 
formation. 
Tony.  Nor  the  way  you  came? 

Hastings.  No,  sir,  but  if  you  can  inform  us 

Tony.  Why,  gentlemen,  if  you  know  neither  the  road  you  are 

going,  nor  where  you  are,  nor  the  road  you  came,  the  first 

thing  I  have  to  inform  you  is,  that — ^you  have  lost  your 

way. 


3^0  GOLDSMITH 

Marlow.  We  wanted  no  ghost  to  tell  us  that. 

Tony.  Pray,  gentlemen,  may  I  be  so  bold  as  to  ask  the  place 

from  whence  you  came? 
Marlow.  That's  not  necessary  towards  directing  us  where  we 

are  to  go. 
Tony.  No  offence;  but  question  for  question  is  all  fair,  you 

know.     Pray,  gentlemen,  is  not  this  same  Hardcastle  a 

cross-grained,   old-fashioned,   whimsical   fellow   with   an 

ugly  face,  a  daughter,  and  a  pretty  son? 
Hastings.  We  have  not  seen  the  gentleman,  but  he  has  the 

family  you  mention. 
Tony.  The  daughter,  a  tall,    trapesing,  trolloping,    talkative 

maypole — the  son,  a  pretty,  well-bred,  agreeable  youth, 

that  everybody  is  fond  of ! 
Marlow.  Our  information  differs  in  this.    The  daughter  is 

said  to  be  well-bred  and  beautiful;  the  son,  an  awkward 

booby,  reared  up  and  spoiled  at  his  mother's  apron-string. 
Tony.  He-he-hem — then,  gentlemen,  all  I  have  to  tell  you  is, 

that  you  won't  reach  Mr.  Hardcastle's  house  this  night,  I 

believe. 
Hastings.  Unfortunate! 
Tony.  It's  a  d d  long,  dark,  boggy,  dirty,  dangerous  way. 

Stingo,  tell  the  gentlemen  the  way  to  Mr.  Hardcastle's. 

[Winking   upon    the   Landlord.]      Mr.    Hardcastle's   of 

Quagmire  Marsh,  you  understand  me. 
Landlord.  Master  Hardcastle's!     Lack-a-daisy,  my  masters, 

you've  come  a  deadly  deal  wrong !    When  you  came  to  the 

bottom  of  the  hill,  you  should  have  crossed  down  Squash 

Lane. 
Marlow.  Cross  down  Squash  Lane  I 
Landlord.  Then  you  were  to  keep  straight  forward,  until  you 

came  to  four  roads. 
Marlow.  Come  to  where  four  roads  meet ! 
Tony.  Ay,  but  you  must  be  sure  to  take  only  one  of  them. 
Marlow.  O,  sir,  you're  facetious! 
Tony.  Then,  keeping  to  the  right,  you  are  to  go  sideways  till 

you  come  upon  Crackskull  common:  there  you  must  loojc 

sharp  for  the  track  of  the  wheel,  and  go  forward,  till  you 

com*  to  farmer  Murrain's  bam.    Coming  to  the  farmer's 


SHE  STOOPS  TO   CONQUER  391 

barn,  you  are  to  turn  to  the  right,  and  then  to  the  left,  and 
then  to  the  right  about  again,  till  you  find  out  the  old 
mill 

Marlow.  Zounds,  man !  we  could  as  soon  find  out  the  longi- 
tude! 

Hastings.  What's  to  be  done,  Marlow  ? 

Marlow.  This  house  promises  but  a  poor  reception,  though, 
perhaps,  the  landlord  can  accommodate  us. 

Landlord.  Alack,  master,  we  have  but  one  spare  bed  in  the 
whole  house. 

Tony.  And  to  my  knowledge,  that's  taken  up  by  three  lodgers 
already.  [After  a  pause,  in  which  the  rest  seem  discon- 
certed.] I  have  hit  it.  Don't  you  think,  Stingo,  our  land- 
lady could  accommodate  the  gentlemen  by  the  fireside, 
with  three  chairs  and  a  bolster? 

Hastings.  I  hate  sleeping  by  the  fireside. 

Marlow.  And  I  detest  your  three  chairs  and  a  bolster. 

Tony.  You  do,  do  you  ? — then  let  me  see — what — if  you  go  on 
a  mile  further,  to  the  Buck's  Head  ;  the  old  Buck's  Head  on 
the  hill,  one  of  the  best  inns  in  the  whole  county  ? 

Hastings.  Oh,  oh !  so  we  have  escaped  an  adventure  for  this 
night,  however. 

Landlord  [apart  to  Tony].  Sure,  you  ben't  sending  them  to 
your  father's  as  an  inn,  be  you? 

Tony.  Mum,  you  fool,  you.  Let  them  find  that  out.  [To 
them.]  You  have  only  to  keep  on  straight  forward,  till 
you  come  to  a  large  old  house  by  the  roadside.  You'll  see 
a  pair  of  large  horns  over  the  door.  That's  the  sign. 
Drive  up  the  yard,  and  call  stoutly  about  you. 

Hastings.  Sir,  we  are  obliged  to  you.  The  servants  can't 
miss  the  way? 

Tony.  No,  no:  But  I  tell  you  though,  the  landlord  is  rich, 
and  going  to  leave  off  business ;  so  he  wants  to  be  thought 
a  gentleman,  saving  your  presence,  he !  he  !  he !  He'll  be 
for  giving  you  his  company,  and,  ecod,  if  you  mind  him 
he'll  persuade  you  that  his  mother  was  an  alderman,  and 
his  aunt  a  justice  of  the  peace ! 

Landlord.  A  troublesome  old  blade,  to  be  sure  ;  but  'a  keeps  as 
good  wines  and  beds  as  any  in  the  whole  country. 


392  COLDSMITH 

Marlow.  Well,  if  he  supplies  us  with  these,  we  shall  want  no 

further  connection.    We  are  to  turn  to  the  right,  did  you 

say? 
Tony.  No,  no;  straight  forward.     I'll  just  step  myself,  and 

show  you  a  piece  of  the  way.     [To  the  Landlord.]   Mum. 
Landlord.  Ah,    bless    your    heart,    for    a    sweet,    pleasant — 

d d  mischievous  son.  [Exeunt. 


ACT  SECOND 
Scene — A  Room  in  Hardcastle's  House 

Enter  Hardcastle,  followed  by  three  or  jour  awkward  servants. 

Hardcastle.  Well,  I  hope  you're  perfect  in  the  table  exercise 
I  have  been  teaching  you  these  three  days.  You  all  know 
your  posts  and  your  places,  and  can  show  that  you  have 
been  used  to  good  company,  without  ever  stirring  from 
home. 

Omnes.  Ay,  ay. 

Hardcastle.  When  company  comes,  you  are  not  to  pop  out 
and  stare,  and  then  run  in  again,  like  frightened  rabbits  in 
a  warren. 

Omnes.  No,  no. 

Hardcastle.  You,  Diggory,  whom  I  have  taken  from  the 
barn,  are  to  make  a  show  at  the  side-table ;  and  you,  Roger, 
whom  I  have  advanced  from  the  plough,  are  to  place  your- 
self behind  my  chair.  But  you're  not  to  stand  so,  with 
your  hands  in  your  pockets.  Take  your  hands  from  your 
pockets,  Roger;  and  from  your  head,  you  blockhead,  you. 
See  how  Diggory  carries  his  hands.  They're  a  little  too 
stiff,  indeed,  but  that's  no  great  matter. 

Diggory.  Ay,  mind  how  I  hold  them.  I  learned  to  hold  my 
hands  this  way,  when  I  was  upon  drill  for  the  militia.  And 
so  being  upon  drill 

Hardcastle.  You  must  not  be  so  talkative,  Diggory.  You 
must  be  all  attention  to  the  guests.  You  must  hear  us  talk, 
and  not  think  of  talking ;  you  must  see  us  drink,  and  not 


SHE   STOOPS   TO    CONQUER  393 

think  of  drinking;   you  must  see  us  eat,  and  not  think  of 
eating. 

DiGGORY.  By  the  laws,  your  worship,  that's  parfectly  unpos- 
sible.  Whenever  Diggory  sees  yeating  going  forward, 
ecod,  he's  always  wishing  for  a  mouthful  himself. 

Hardcastle.  Blockhead!  Is  not  a  bellyful  in  the  kitchen  as 
good  as  a  bellyful  in  the  parlor?  Stay  your  stomach  with 
that  reflection. 

Diggory.  Ecod,  I  thank  your  worship,  I'll  make  a  shift  to  stay 
my  stomach  with  a  slice  of  cold  beef  in  the  pantry. 

Hardcastle.  Diggory,  you  are  too  talkative.  Then,  if  I  hap- 
pen to  say  a  good  thing,  or  tell  a  good  story  at  table,  you 
must  not  all  burst  out  a-laughing,  as  if  you  made  part  of 
the  company. 

Diggory.  Then,  ecod,  your  worship  must  not  tell  the  story 
of  Ould  Grouse  in  the  gun-room :  I  can't  help  laughing  at 
that — he !  he !  he ! — for  the  soul  of  me !  We  have  laughed 
at  that  these  twenty  years — ha !  ha  !  ha ! 

Hardcastle.  Ha!  ha!  ha!  The  story  is  a  good  one.  Well, 
honest  Diggory,  you  may  laugh  at  that — but  still  remem- 
ber to  be  attentive.  Suppose  one  of  the  company  should 
call  for  a  glass  of  wine,  how  will  you  behave  ?  A  glass  of 
wine,  sir,  if  you  please  [to  Diggory].  Eh,  why  don't  you 
move? 

Diggory.  Ecod,  your  worship,  I  never  have  courage  till  I  see 
the  eatables  and  drinkables  brought  upo'  the  table,  and 
then  I'm  as  bauld  as  a  lion. 

Hardcastle.  What,  will  nobody  move? 

First  Servant.  I'm  not  to  leave  this  pleace. 

Second  Servant.  I'm  sure  it's  no  pleace  of  mine. 

Th;rd  Servant.  Nor  mine,  for  sartain. 

Diggory.  Wauns,  and  I'm  sure  it  canna  be  mine. 

Hardcastle.  You  numskulls!  and  so  while,  like  your  betters, 
you  are  quarrelling  for  places,  the  guests  must  be  starved. 
O,  you  dunces!  I  find  I  must  begin  all  over  again.  But 
don't  I  hear  a  coach  drive  into  the  yard  ?  To  your  posts, 
you  blockheads!  I'll  go  in  the  meantime  and  give  my  old 
friend's  son  a  hearty  reception  at  the  gate. 

[Exit  Hardcastle. 


394 


GOLDSMITH 


DiGGORY.  By  the  elevens,  my  pleace  is  gone  quite  out  of  my 

head! 
Roger.  I  know  that  my  pleace  is  to  be  everywhere  I 
First  Servant,  Where  the  devil  is  mine? 
Second  Servant.  My  pleace  is  to  be  nowhere  at  all ;  and  so  Ize 

go  about  my  business ! 
[Exeunt  servants,  running  about  as  if  frighted,  different  ways. 

Enter  Servant  zuith  candles,  showing  in  Marlow  and  Hastings. 

Servant.  Welcome,  gentlemen,  very  welcome.    This  way. 

Hastings.  After  the  disappointments  of  the  day,  welcome  once 
more,  Charles,  to  the  comforts  of  a  clean  room  and  a  good 
fire.  Upon  my  word,  a  very  well-looking  house ;  antique, 
but  creditable. 

Marlow.  The  usual  fate  of  a  large  mansion.  Having  first 
ruined  the  master  by  good  house-keeping,  it  at  last  comes 
to  levy  contributions  as  an  inn. 

Hastings.  As  you  say,  we  passengers  are  to  be  taxed  to  pay  all 
these  fineries.  I  have  often  seen  a  good  sideboard,  or  a 
marble  chimney-piece,  though  not  actually  put  in  the  bill, 
inflame  a  reckoning  confoundedly. 

Marlow.  Travellers,  George,  must  pay  in  all  places.  The  only 
difiference  is,  that  in  good  inns,  you  pay  dearly  for  luxu- 
ries ;  in  bad  inns,  you  are  fleeced  and  starved. 

Hastings.  You  have  lived  pretty  much  among  them.  In 
truth,  I  have  been  often  surprised,  that  you  who  have  seen 
so  much  of  the  world,  with  your  natural  good  sense,  and 
j'^our  many  opportunities,  could  never  yet  acquire  a  requisite 
share  of  assurance. 

Marlow.  The  Englishman's  malady.  But  tell  me,  George, 
where  could  I  have  learned  that  assurance  you  talk  of? 
My  life  has  been  chiefly  spent  in  a  college,  or  an  inn,  in  se- 
clusion from  that  lovely  part  of  the  creation  that  chiefly 
teach  men  confidence.  I  don't  know  that  I  was  ever  fa- 
miliarly acquainted  with  a  single  modest  woman — except 
my  mother — But  among  females  of  another  class,  you 
know 

Hastings.  Ay,  among  them  you  are  impudent  enough  of  all 
conscience  I 


SHE  STOOPS  TO   CONQUER  395 

Marlow.  They  are  of  us,  you  know. 

Hastings.  But  in  the  company  of  women  of  reputation  I  never 
saw  such  an  idiot,  such  a  trembler;  you  look  for  all  the 
world  as  if  you  wanted  an  opportunity  of  steahng  out  of 
the  room. 

Marlow.  Why,  man,  that's  because  I  do  want  to  steal  out  of 
the  room.  Faith,  I  have  often  formed  a  resolution  to 
break  the  ice,  and  rattle  away  at  any  rate.  But  I  don't 
know  how,  a  single  glance  from  a  pair  of  fine  eyes  has 
totally  overset  my  resolution.  An  impudent  fellow  may 
counterfeit  modesty,  but  I'll  be  hanged  if  a  modest  man 
can  ever  counterfeit  impudence. 

Hastings.  If  you  could  but  say  half  the  fine  things  to  them 
that  I  have  heard  you  lavish  upon  the  barmaid  of  an  inn, 
or  even  a  college  bedmaker 

Marlow.  Why,  George,  I  can't  say  fine  things  to  them.  They 
freeze,  they  petrify  me.  They  may  talk  of  a  comet,  or  a 
burning  mountain  or  some  such  bagatelle.  But  to  me,  a 
modest  woman,  dressed  out  in  all  her  finery,  is  the  most 
tremendous  object  of  the  whole  creation. 

Hastings.  Ha !  ha !  ha !  At  this  rate,  man,  how  can  you  ever 
expect  to  marry? 

Marlow.  Never,  unless,  as  among  kings  and  princes,  my  bride 
were  to  be  courted  by  proxy.  If,  indeed,  like  an  Eastern 
bridegroom,  one  were  to  be  introduced  to  a  wife  he  never 
saw  before,  it  might  be  endured.  But  to  go  through  all 
the  terrors  of  a  formal  courtship,  together  with  the  episode 
of  aunts,  grandmothers, 'and  cousins,  and  at  last  to  blurt 
out  the  broad  staring  question  of.  Madam,  will  you  marry 
me?    No,  no,  that's  a  strain  much  above  me,  I  assure  you ! 

Hastings.  I  pity  you.  But  how  do  you  intend  behaving  to  the 
lady  you  are  come  down  to  visit  at  the  request  of  your 
father  ? 

Marlow.  As  I  behave  to  all  other  ladies.    Bow  very  low.    An- 
swer yes,  or  no,  to  all  her  demands — But  for  the  rest,  I 
don't  think  I  shall  venture  to  look  in  her  face,  till  I  see  my 
father's  again. 
Hastings.  I'm  surprised  that  one  who  is  so  warm  a  friend  can 

be  so  cool  a  lover. 
Marlow.  To  be  explicit,  my  dear  Hastings,  my  chief  induce- 


396  GOLDSMITH 

merit  down  was  to  be  instrumental  in  forwarding  your 
happiness,  not  my  own.  Miss  Neville  loves  you,  the  family 
don't  know  you,  as  my  friend  you  are  sure  of  a  reception, 
and  let  honor  do  the  rest. 

Hastings.  My  dear  Marlow!  But  I'll  suppress  the  emotion. 
Were  I  a  wretch,  meanly  seeking  to  carry  off  a  fortune, 
you  should  be  the  last  man  in  the  world  I  would  apply  to 
for  assistance.  But  Miss  Neville's  person  is  all  I  ask,  and 
that  is  mine,  both  from  her  deceased  father's  consent,  and 
her  own  inclination. 

Marlow.  Happy  man !  You  have  talents  and  art  to  captivate 
any  woman.  I'm  doomed  to  adore  the  sex,  and  yet  to  con- 
verse with  the  only  part  of  it  I  despise.  This  stammer  in 
my  address,  and  this  awkward  prepossessing  visage  of 
mine,  can  never  permit  me  to  soar  above  the  reach  of  a 
milliner's  apprentice,  or  one  of  the  duchesses  of  Drury 
Lane.    Pshaw !  this  fellow  here  to  interrupt  us. 

Enter  Hardcastle, 

Hardcastle.  Gentlemen,  once  more  you  are  heartily  welcome. 
Which  is  Mr.  Marlow  ?  Sir,  you're  heartily  welcome.  It's 
not  my  way,  you  see,  to  receive  my  friends  with  my  back 
to  the  fire.  I  like  to  give  them  a  hearty  reception  in  the 
old  style  at  my  gate.  I  like  to  see  their  horses  and  trunks 
taken  care  of. 

Marlow  [aside].  He  has  got  our  names  from  the  servants  al- 
ready. [To  him.]  We  approve  your  caution  and  hospi- 
tality, sir.  [To  Hastings.]  I  have  been  thinking.  George; 
of  changing  our  travelling  dresses  in  the  morning.  I  am 
grown  confoundedly  ashamed  of  mine. 

Hardcastle.  I  beg,  Mr.  Marlow,  you'll  use  no  ceremony  in 
this  house. 

Hastings.  I  fancy,  George,  you're  right :  the  first  blow  is  half 
the  battle.  I  intend  opening  the  campaign  with  the  white 
and  gold. 

Hardcastle.  Mr.  Marlow — Mr.  Hastings — gentlemen — pray 
be  under  no  constraint  in  this  house.  This  is  Liberty  Hall, 
gentlemen.    You  may  do  just  as  you  please  here. 

Marlow.  Yet,  George,  if  we  open  the  campaign  too  fiercely 


SHE   STOOPS  TO   CONQUER  397 

at  first,  wc  may  want  ammunition  before  it  is  over.  I  think 
to  reserve  the  embroidery  to  secure  a  retreat. 

Hardcastle.  Your  talking  of  a  retreat,  Mr.  Marlow,  puts  me 
in  mind  of  the  Duke  of  Marlborough,  when  we  went  to 
besiege  Denain.    He  first  summoned  the  garrison 

Marlow.  Don't  you  think  the  ventre  d'or  waistcoat  will  do 
with  the  plain  brown  ? 

Hardcastle.  He  first  summoned  the  garrison,  which  might 
consist  of  about  five  thousand  men 

Hastings.  I  think  not :  brown  and  yellow  mix  but  very  poorly. 

Hardcastle.  I  say,  gentlemen,  as  I  was  telling  you,  he  sum- 
moned the  garrison,  which  might  consist  of  about  five 
thousand  men 

Marlow.  The  girls  like  finery. 

Hardcastle.  Which  might  consist  of  about  five  thousand  men, 
well  appointed  with  stores,  ammunition,  and  other  imple- 
ments of  war.  "  Now,"  says  the  Duke  of  Marlborough 
to  George  Brooks,  that  stood  next  to  him — you  must  have 
heard  of  George  Brooks — "  I'll  pawn  my  Dukedom,"  says 
he,  "  but  I  take  that  garrison  without  spilling  a  drop  of 
blood!"    So 

Marlow.  What,  my  good  friend,  if  you  gave  us  a  glass  of 
punch  in  the  meantime?  it  would  help  us  to  carry  on  the 
siege  with  vigor. 

Hardcastle.  Punch,  sir! — {AsideS\  This  is  the  most  unac- 
countable kind  of  modesty  I  ever  met  with ! 

Marlow.  Yes,  sir,  punch !  A  glass  of  warm  punch,  after  our 
journey,  will  be  comfortable.  This  is  Liberty  Hall,  you 
know. 

Hardcastle,  Here's  cup,  sir. 

Marlow  [aside].  So  this  fellow,  in  his  Liberty  Hall,  will  only 
let  us  have  just  what  he  pleases. 

Hardcastle  [taking  the  cup].  I  hope  youll  find  it  to  your 
mind.  I  have  prepared  it  with  my  own  hands,  and  I  be- 
lieve you'll  own  the  ingredients  are  tolerable.  Will  you  be 
so  good  as  to  pledge  me,  sir?  Here,  Mr.  Marlow,  here  is 
to  our  better  acquaintance !  [Drinks. 

Marlow  [aside].  A  very  impudent  fellow  this  I  but  he's  a 
character,  and  I'll  humor  him  a  little.  Sir,  my  service  to 
you.  [Drinks. 


398  GOLDSMITH 

Hastings  [aside].  I  see  this  fellow  wants  to  give  us  his  com- 
pany, and  forgets  that  he's  an  innkeeper,  before  he  has 
learned  to  be  a  gentleman. 

Marlow.  From  the  excellence  of  your  cup,  my  old  friend,  I 
suppose  you  have  a  good  deal  of  business  in  this  part  of 
the  country.  Warm  work,  now  and  then,  at  elections,  I 
suppose  ? 

Hardcastle.  No,  sir,  I  have  long  given  that  work  over.  Since 
our  betters  have  hit  upon  the  expedient  of  electing  each 
other,  there's  no  business  for  us  that  sell  ale. 

Hastings.  So,  then  you  have  no  turn  for  politics,  I  find  ? 

Hardcastle.  Not  in  the  least.  There  was  a  time,  indeed,  I 
fretted  myself  about  the  mistakes  of  government,  like  other 
people ;  but,  finding  myself  every  day  grow  more  angry, 
and  the  government  growing  no  better,  I  left  it  to  mend 
itself.  Since  that,  I  no  more  trouble  my  head  about  Heyder 
Ally,  or  Ally  Cawii,  than  about  Ally  Croaker.  Sir,  my 
service  to  you. 

Hastings.  So  that,  with  eating  above  stairs,  and  drinking  be- 
low, with  receiving  your  friends  within,  and  amusing  them 
without,  you  lead  a  good  pleasant  bustling  life  of  it. 

Hardcastle.  I  do  stir  about  a  great  deal,  that's  certain.  Half 
the  differences  of  the  parish  are  adjusted  in  this  very 
parlor. 

Marlow  [after  drinking}.  And  you  have  an  argument  in  your 
cup,  old  gentleman,  better  than  any  in  Westminster  Hall. 

Hardcastle.  Ay,  young  gentleman,  that,  and  a  little  philosophy. 

Marlow  [aside] .  Well,  this  is  the  first  time  I  ever  heard  of  an 
innkeeper's  philosophy. 

Hastings.  So  then,  like  an  experienced  general,  you  attack 
them  on  every  quarter.  If  you  find  their  reason  manage- 
able, you  attack  it  with  your  philosophy ;  if  you  find  they 
have  no  reason,  you  attack  them  with  this.  Here's  your 
health,  my  philosopher.  [Drinks. 

Hardcastle.  Good,  very  good,  thank  you ;  ha !  ha !  Your  gen- 
eralship puts  me  in  mind  of  Prince  Eugene,  when  he  fought 
the  Turks  at  the  battle  of  Belgrade.    You  shall  hear. 

Marlow.  Instead  of  the  battle  of  Belgrade,  I  believe  it's  almost 
time  to  talk  about  supper.  What  has  your  philosophy  got 
in  the  house  for  supper  ? 


SHE   STOOPS   TO    CONQUER  399 

Hardcastle.  For  supper,  sir. [Aside.]  Was  ever  such 

a  request  to  a  man  in  his  own  house ! 

Marlow.  Yes,  sir,  supper,  sir;  I  begin  to  feel  an  appetite.  I 
shall  make  devilish  work  to-night  in  the  larder,  1  promise 
you. 

Hardcastle  [aside].  Such  a  brazen  dog  sure  never  my  eyes 
beheld.  [To  him.]  Why,  really,  sir,  as  for  supper  I  can't 
well  tell.  My  Dorothy,  and  the  cook  maid,  settle  these 
things  between  them.  I  leave  these  kind  of  things  entirely 
to  them. 

Marlow.  You  do,  do  you  ? 

Hardcastle.  Entirely.  By-the-bye,  I  believe  they  are  in  actual 
consultation  upon  what's  for  supper  this  moment  in  the 
kitchen. 

Marlow.  Then  I  beg  they'll  admit  me  as  one  of  their  privy 
counsel.  It's  a  way  I  have  got.  When  I  travel,  I  always 
choose  to  regulate  my  own  supper.  Let  the  cook  be  called. 
No  offence,  I  hope,  sir? 

Hardcastle.  O  no,  sir,  none  in  the  least;  yet,  I  don't  know 
how :  our  Bridget,  the  cook  maid,  is  not  very  communica- 
tive upon  these  occasions.  Should  we  send  for  her,  she 
might  scold  us  all  out  of  the  house. 

Hastings.  Let's  see  your  list  of  the  larder,  then.  I  ask  it  as  a 
favor.    I  always  match  my  appetite  to  my  bill  of  fare. 

Marlow  [to  Hardcastle,  zvho  looks  at  them  with  surprise]. 
Sir,  he's  very  right,  and  it's  my  way,  too. 

Hardcastle.  Sir,  you  have  a  right  to  command  here.  Here, 
Roger,  bring  us  the  bill  of  fare  for  to-night's  supper.  I 
believe  it's  drawn  out.  Your  manner,  Mr.  Hastings,  puts 
me  in  mind  of  my  uncle.  Colonel  Wallop.  It  was  a  saying 
of  his,  that  no  man  was  sure  of  his  supper  till  he  had 
eaten  it. 

Hastings  [aside].  All  upon  the  high  ropes!  His  uncle  a 
colonel !  We  shall  soon  hear  of  his  mother  being  a  justice 
of  peace.    But  let's  hear  the  bill  of  fare. 

Marlow  [perusing].  What's  here?  For  the  first  course ;  for 
the  second  course ;  for  the  dessert.  The  devil,  sir,  do  you 
think  we  have  brought  down  the  whole  Joiners'  Company, 
or  the  Corporation  of  Bedford,  to  eat  up  such  a  supper? 
Two  or  three  little  things,  clean  and  comfortable,  will  do. 

Hastings.  But  let's  hear  it.  01     -       ^r  1   o^    « 

Classics.     Vol.  36 — R 


400  GOLDSMITH 

Marlow  [reading].  For  the  first  course  at  the  tr;p  a  pig,  an4 
prune  sauce. 

Hastings.  D — n  your  pig,  I  say! 

Marlow.  And  d — n  your  prune  sauce,  say  I ! 

Hai^dcastle.  And  yet,  gentlemen,  to  men  that  are  hungry,  pig, 
with  prune  sauce,  is  very  good  eating. 

Marlow.  At  the  bottom,  a  calf's  tongue  and  brains. 

Hastings.  Let  your  brains  be  knocked  out,  my  good  sir;  I 
don't  like  them. 

Marlow.  Or  you  may  clap  them  on  a  plate  by  themselves,  I  do. 

Hardcastle  [aside].  Their  impudence  confounds  me.  [To 
them.]  Gentlemen,  you  are  my  guests,  make  what  altera- 
tions you  please.  Is  there  anything  else  you  wish  to  re- 
trench or  alter,  gentlemen? 

Marlow.  Item.  A  pork  pie,  a  boiled  rabbit  and  sausages,  a 
fllorentine,  a  shaking  pudding,  and  a  dish  of  tiff — ^taff — 
taffety  cream ! 

Hastings.  Confound  your  made  dishes,  I  shall  be  as  much  at 
a  loss  in  this  house  as  at  a  green  and  yellow  dinner  at  the 
French  ambassador's  table.     I'm  for  plain  eating. 

Hardcastle.  I'm  sorry,  gentlemen,  that  I  have  nothing  you 
like,  but  if  there  be  anything  you  have  a  particular  fancy 
to 

Marlow.  Why,  really,  sir,  your  bill  of  fare  is  so  exquisite,  that 
any  one  part  of  it  is  full  as  good  as  another.  Send  us  what 
you  please.  So  much  for  supper.  And  now  to  see  that  our 
beds  are  aired,  and  properly  taken  care  of. 

Hardcastle.  I  entreat  you'll  leave  all  that  to  me.  You  shall 
not  stir  a  step. 

Marlow.  Leave  that  to  you !  I  protest,  sir,  you  must  excuse 
me,  I  always  look  to  these  things  myself. 

Hardcastle.  I  must  insist,  sir,  you'll  make  yourself  easy  on 
that  head. 

Marlow.  You  see  I'm  resolved  on  it.  [Aside.]  A  very 
troublesome  fellow  this,  as  ever  I  met  with. 

Hardcastle.  Well,  sir,  I'm  resolved  at  least  to  attend  you. — 
[Aside.]  This  may  be  modem  modesty,  but  I  never  saw 
anything  look  so  like  old-fashioned  impudence. 

[Exeunt  Marlow  and  Hardcastle. 

Hastings,  So  I  find  this  fellow's  civilities  begin  to  grow  troub* 


SHE   STOOPS   TO    CONQUER  401 

lesome.  But  who  can  be  angry  at  those  assiduities  which 
are  meant  to  please  him?  Ha!  what  do  I  see?  Miss 
Neville,  by  all  that's  happy ! 

Enter  Miss  Neville. 

Miss  Neville,  My  dear  Hastings !    To  what  unexpected  good 
fortune — to  what  accident  am  I  to  ascribe  this  happy  meet- 


ing 


Hastings.  Rather  let  me  ask  the  same  question,  as  I  could  never 
have  hoped  to  meet  my  dearest  Constance  at  an  inn. 

Miss  Neville.  An  inn !  sure  you  mistake !  my  aunt,  my  guar- 
dian, lives  here.  What  could  induce  you  to  think  this  house 
an  inn  ? 

Hastings.  My  friend,  Mr.  Marlow,  with  whom  I  came  down, 
and  I,  have  been  sent  here  as  to  an  inn,  I  assure  you.  A 
young  fellow  whom  we  accidentally  met  at  a  house  hard  by 
directed  us  hither. 

Miss  Neville.  Certainly  it  must  be  one  of  my  hopeful  cousin's 
tricks,  of  whom  you  have  heard  me  talk  so  often,  ha !  ha ! 
ha!  ha! 

Hastings.  He  whom  your  aunt  intends  for  you?  He  of  whom 
I  have  such  just  apprehensions? 

Miss  Neville.  You  have  nothing  to  fear  from  him,  I  assure 
you.  You'd  adore  him  if  you  knew  how  heartily  he  despises 
me.  My  aunt  knows  it  too,  and  has  undertaken  to  court  me 
for  him,  and  actually  begins  to  think  she  has  made  a  con- 
quest. 

Hastings.  Thou  dear  dissembler!  You  must  know,  my  Con- 
stance, I  have  just  seized  this  happy  opportunity  of  my 
friend's  visit  here  to  get  admittance  into  the  family.  The 
horses  that  carried  us  down  are  now  fatigued  with  their 
journey,  but  they'll  soon  be  refreshed ;  and  then,  if  my 
dearest  girl  will  trust  in  her  faithful  Hastings,  we  shall 
soon  be  landed  in  France,  where  even  among  slaves  the 
laws  of  marriage  are  respected. 

Miss  Neville,  I  have  often  told  you,  that  though  ready  to  obey 
you,  I  yet  should  leave  my  little  fortune  behind  with  reluc- 
tance. The  greatest  part  of  it  was  left  me  by  my  uncle, 
the  India  Director,  and  chiefly  consists  in  jewels.    I  have 


^9  GOLDSMITH 

been  for  some  time  persuading  my  aunt  to  let  me  wear  them. 
I  fancy  I'm  very  near  succeeding.  The  instant  they  are 
put  into  my  possession  you  shall  find  me  ready  to  make 
them  and  myself  yours. 

Hastings.  Perish  the  baubles !  Your  person  is  all  I  desire.  In 
the  meantime,  my  friend  Marlow  must  not  be  let  into  his 
mistake.  I  know  the  strange  reserve  of  his  temper  is  such, 
that  if  abruptly  informed  of  it,  he  would  instantly  quit  the 
house  before  our  plan  was  ripe  for  execution. 

Miss  Neville.  But  how  shall  we  keep  him  in  the  deception? 
Miss  Hardcastle  is  just  returned  from  walking ;  what  if  we 

still  continue  to  deceive  him? — This,  this  way 

[They  confer. 
Enter  Marlow. 

Marlow.  The  assiduities  of  these  good  people  tease  me  beyond 
bearing.  My  host  seems  to  think  it  ill  manners  to  leave 
me  alone,  and  so  he  claps  not  only  himself,  but  his  old- 
fashioned  wife  on  my  back.  They  talk  of  coming  to  sup 
with  us,  too ;  and  then,  I  suppose  we  are  to  run  the  gaunt- 
let through  all  the  rest  of  the  family.  What  have  we  got 
here  ?— — 

Hastings.  My  dear  Charles !  Let  me  congratulate  you ! — The 
most  fortunate  accident! — Who  do  you  think  is  just 
alighted  ? 

Marlow.  Cannot  guess. 

Hastings.  Our  mistresses,  boy.  Miss  Hardcastle  and  Miss 
Neville.  Give  me  leave  to  introduce  Miss  Constance  Neville 
to  your  acquaintance.  Happening  to  dine  in  the  neighbor- 
hood, they  called,  on  their  return,  to  take  fresh  horses  here. 
Miss  Hardcastle  has  just  stept  into  the  next  room,  and  will 
be  back  in  an  instant.    Wasn't  it  lucky  ?  eh  ! 

Marlow  [aside].  I  have  just  been  mortified  enough  of  all  con- 
science, and  here  comes  something  to  complete  my  embar- 
rassment. 

Hastings.  Well !  but  wasn't  it  the  most  fortunate  thing  in  the 
world  ? 

Marlow.  Oh!  yes.  Very  foitunate — a  most  joyful  encounter 
— But  our  dresses,  George,  you  know,  are  in  disorder — 
What  if  we  should  postpone  the  happiness  till  to-morrow  ? 


SHE   STOOPS   TO    CONQUER  403 

— To-morrow  at  her  own  house — It  will  be  every  bit  as 

convenient — And  rather  more  respectful — To-morrow  let 

it  be.  [Offering  to  go. 

Miss  Neville.  By  no  means,  sir.    Your  ceremony  will  displease 

her.    The  disorder  of  your  dress  will  show  the  ardor  of  your 

impatience.    Besides,  she  knows  you  are  in  the  house,  and 

will  permit  you  to  see  her. 
Marlow.  O  !  the  devil !  how  shall  I  support  it  ?    Hem !  hem ! 

Hastings,  you  must  not  go.    You  are  to  assist  me,  you  know. 

I  shall  be  confoundedly  ridiculous.    Yet,  hang  it!    I'll  take 

courage.    Hem ! 
Hastings.    Pshaw,  man !  it's  but  the  first  plunge,  and  all's  over. 

She's  but  a  woman,  you  know. 
Marlow.  And  of  all  women,  she  that  I  dread  most  to  encounter  I 

Enter  Miss  Hardcastle,  as  returned  from  walking,  wearing  a 

bonnet. 

Hastings  [introducing  them].  Miss  Hardcastle,  Mr.  Marlow, 
I'm  proud  of  bringing  two  persons  of  such  merit  together, 
that  only  want  to  know,  to  esteem  each  other. 

Miss  Hardcastle  [aside].  Now,  for  meeting  my  modest  gen- 
tleman with  a  demure  face,  and  quite  in  his  own  manner. 
[After  a  pause,  in  zvhich  he  appears  very  uneasy  and  dis- 
concerted.] I'm  glad  of  your  safe  arrival,  sir — I'm  told 
you  had  some  accidents  by  the  way. 

Marlow.  Only  a  few,  madam.  Yes,  we  had  some.  Yes, 
madam,  a  good  many  accidents,  but  should  be  sorry — 
madam — or  rather  glad  of  any  accidents — that  are  so  agree- 
ably concluded.    Hem ! 

Hastings  [to  Jiim].  You  never  ^poke  better  in  your  whole  life. 
Keep  it  up,  and  I'll  insure  you  the  victory. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  I'm  afraid  you  flatter,  sir.  You  that  have 
seen  so  much  of  the  finest  company  can  find  little  entertain- 
ment in  an  obscure  corner  of  the  country. 

Marlow  [gathering  courage].  I  have  lived,  indeed,  in  the 
world,  madam ;  but  I  have  kept  very  little  company.  I 
have  been  but  an  observer  upon  life,  madam,  while  others 
were  enjoying  it. 

Miss  Neville.  But  that,  I  am  told,  is  the  way  to  enjoy  it  at  last. 


^04  GOLDSMITH 

Hastings  [to  him].  Cicero  never  spoke  better.  Once  more, 
and  you  are  confirmed  in  assurance  forever. 

Marlow  [to  him].  Hem!  Stand  by  me,  then,  and  when  I'm 
down,  throw  in  a  word  or  two  to  set  me  up  again. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  An  observer,  Hke  you,  upon  life,  were,  I  fear, 
disagreeably  employed,  since  you  must  have  had  much  more 
to  censure  than  to  approve, 

Marlow.  Pardon  me,  madam.  I  was  always  willing  to  be 
amused.  The  folly  of  most  people  is  rather  an  object  of 
mirth  than  uneasiness. 

Hastings  [to  him].  Bravo,  bravo.  Never  spoke  so  well  in 
your  whole  life.  Well,  Miss  Hardcastle,  I  see  that  you 
and  Mr.  Marlow  are  going  to  be  very  good  company.  I  be- 
lieve our  being  here  will  but  embarrass  the  interview. 

Marlow.  Not  in  the  least,  Mr.  Hastings.  We  like  your  com- 
pany of  all  things.  [To  him.]  Zounds!  George,  sure  you 
won't  go  ?    How  can  you  leave  us  ? 

Hastings.  Our  presence  will  but  spoil  conversation,  so  we'll 
retire  to  the  next  room.  [To  him.]  You  don't  consider, 
man,  that  we  are  to  manage  a  little  tete-d-tete  of  our  own. 

[Exeunt. 

Miss  Hardcastle  [after  a  pause].  But  you  have  not  been 
wholly  an  observer,  I  presume,  sir.  The  ladies,  I  should 
hope,  have  employed  some  part  of  your  addresses. 

Marlow  [relapsing  into  timidity].  Pardon  me,  madam,  I — 
I — I — as  yet  have  studied — only — to — deserve  them. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  And  that  some  say  is  the  very  worst  way 
to  obtain  them. 

Marlow.  Perhaps  so,  madam.  But  I  love  to  converse  only  with 
the  more  grave  and  sensible  part  of  the  sex.  But  I'm 
afraid  I  grow  tiresome. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  Not  at  all,  sir;  there  is  nothing  I  like  so 
much  as  grave  conversation  m5^self:  I  could  hear  it  for- 
ever. Indeed,  I  have  often  been  surprised  how  a  man  of 
sentiment  could  ever  admire  those  light  airy  pleasures, 
where  nothing  reaches  the  heart. 

Marlow.  It's — a  disease — of  the  mind,  madam.  In  the  variety 
of  tastes  there  must  be  some  who,  wanting  a  relish  for — 
um-a-um 

Miss  Hardcastle.  I  understand  you,  sir.    There  must  be  some. 


SHE   STOOPS   TO   CONQUER  405 

who,  wanting  a  relish  for  refined  pleasures,  pretend  to  de- 
spise what  they  are  incapable  of  tasting. 

Marlow.  My  meaning,  madam,  but  infinitely  better  expressed. 
And  I  can't  help  observing — a 

Miss  Hardcastle  [aside].  Who  could  ever  suppose  this  fel- 
low impudent  upon  some  occasions  ?  [To  him.]  You  were 
going  to  observe,  sir 

Marlow.  I  was  observing,  madam — I  protest,  madam,  I  for- 
get what  I  was  going  to  observe. 

Miss  Hardcastle  [aside].  I  vow  and  so  do  I.  [To  him.]  You 
were  observing,  sir,  that  in  this  age  of  hypocrisy — some- 
thing about  hypocrisy,  sir. 

Marlow.  Yes,  madam.  In  this  age  of  hypocrisy,  there  are  few 
who  upon  strict  inquiry  do  not — a — a — a 

Miss  Hardcastle.  I  understand  you  perfectly,  sir. 

Marlow  [aside].  Egad!   and  that's  more  than  I  do  myself! 

Miss  Hardcastle.  You  mean  that  in  this  hypocritical  age  there 
are  few  that  do  not  condemn  in  pubHc  what  they  practise 
in  private,  and  think  they  pay  every  debt  to  virtue  when 
they  praise  it. 

Marlow.  True,  madam ;  those  who  have  most  virtue  in  their 
mouths,  have  least  of  it  in  their  bosoms.  But  I'm  sure  I 
tire  you,  madam. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  Not  in  the  least,  sir ;  there's  something  so 
agreeable  and  spirited  in  your  manner,  such  life  and  force 
— pray,  sir,  go  on. 

Marlow.  Yes,  madam.  I  was  saying — that  there  are  some  oc- 
casions— when  a  total  want  of  courage,  madam,  destroys 
all  the — and  puts  us — upon  a — a — a 

Miss  Hardcastle.  I  agree  with  you  entirely,  a  want  of  courage 
upon  some  occasions  assumes  the  appearance  of  ignorance, 
and  betrays  us  when  we  most  want  to  excel.  I  beg  you'll 
proceed. 

Marlow.  Yes,  madam.  Morally  speaking,  madam — But  I  see 
Miss  Neville  expecting  us  in  the  next  room.  I  would  not 
intrude  for  the  world. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  I  protest,  sir,  I  never  was  more  agreeably 
entertained  in  all  my  life.    Pray  go  on. 

Marlow.  Yes,  madam.  I  was — But  she  beckons  us  to  join  her. 
Madam,  shall  I  do  myself  the  honor  to  attend  you  ? 


4o6  GOLDSMITH 

Miss  Hardcastle,  Well  then,  I'll  follow. 

Marlow  [aside].  This  pretty  smooth  dialogue  has  done  for 
me.  [Exit. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  Ha !  ha !  ha !  Was  there  ever  such  a  sober 
sentimental  interview?  I'm  certain  he  scarce  looked  in 
my  face  the  whole  time.  Yet  the  fellow,  but  for  his  unac- 
countable bashfulness,  is  pretty  well,  too.  He  has  good 
sense,  but  then  so  buried  in  his  fears,  that  it  fatigues  one 
more  than  ignorance.  If  I  could  teach  him  a  little  confi- 
dence, it  would  be  doing  somebody  that  I  know  of  a  piece 
of  service.  But  who  is  that  somebody? — that,  faith,  is  a 
question  I  can  scarce  answer.  [Exit. 

Enter  Tony  and  Miss  Neville,  followed  by  Mrs.  Hardcastle  and 

Hastings. 

Tony.  What  do  you  follow  me  for,  cousin  Con?  I  wonder 
you're  not  ashamed  to  be  so  very  engaging. 

Miss  Neville.  I  hope,  cousin,  one  may  speak  to  one's  own 
relations,  and  not  be  to  blame. 

Tony.  Ay,  but  I  know  what  sort  of  a  relation  you  want  to 
make  me,  though ;  but  it  won't  do.  I  tell  you,  cousin  Con, 
it  won't  do,  so  I  beg  you'll  keep  your  distance,  I  want  no 
nearer  relationship. 

[She  follows  him,  coquetting,  to  the  back  scene. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  Well !  I  vow,  Mr.  Hastings,  you  are  very 
entertaining.  There's  nothing  in  the  world  I  love  to  talk 
of  so  much  as  London,  and  the  fashions,  though  I  was  never 
there  myself. 

Hastings.  Never  there !  You  amaze  me !  From  your  air  and 
manner,  I  concluded  you  had  been  bred  all  your  life  either 
at  Ranelagh,  St.  James's,  or  Tower  Wharf. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  O  !  sir,  you're  only  pleased  to  say  so.  We 
country  persons  can  have  no  manner  at  all.  I'm  in  love 
with  the  town,  and  that  serves  to  raise  me  above  some  of 
our  neighboring  rustics ;  but  who  can  have  a  manner,  that 
has  never  seen  the  Pantheon,  the  Grotto  Gardens,  the 
Borough,  and  such  places  where  the  nobility  chiefly  resort  ? 
All  I  can  do  is  to  enjoy  London  at  second-hand.  I  take 
care  to  know  every  tete-d-tete  from  the  "  Scandalous 
Magazine,"  and  have  all  the  fashions  as  they,  come  out. 


SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER  407 

!n  a  letter  from  the  two  Miss  Rickets  of  Crooked  Lane. 
Pray  how  do  you  Hke  this  head,  Mr.  Hastings? 

Hastings.  Extremely  elegant  and  degagee,  upon  my  word, 
madam.     Your  friseur  is  a  Frenchman,  I  suppose? 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  I  protest,  I  dressed  it  myself  from  a  print 
in  the  "  Ladies'  Memorandum-book  "  for  the  last  year. 

Hastings.  Indeed!  Such  a  head  in  a  side-box,  at  the  Play- 
house, would  draw  as  many  gazers  as  my  Lady  Mayoress 
at  a  City  Ball. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  I  vow,  since  inoculation  began,  there  is  no 
such  thing  to  be  seen  as  a  plain  woman ;  so  one  must  dress 
a  little  particular  or  one  may  escape  in  the  crowd. 

Hastings.  But  that  can  never  be  your  case,  madam,  in  any 
dress !  [Bowing. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  Yet,  what  signifies  my  dressing  when  I  have 
such  a  piece  of  antiquity  by  my  side  as  Mr.  Hardcastle :  all 
I  can  say  will  never  argue  down  a  single  button  from  his 
clothes.  I  have  often  wanted  him  to  throw  off  his  great 
flaxen  wig,  and  where  he  was  bald,  to  plaster  it  over  like 
my  Lord  Pately,  with  powder. 

Hastings.  You  are  right,  madam ;  for,  as  among  the  ladies 
there  are  none  ugly,  so  among  the  men  there  are  none  old. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  But  what  do  you  think  his  answer  was? 
Why,  with  his  usual  Gothic  vivacity,  he  said  I  only  wanted 
him  to  throw  off  his  wig  to  convert  it  into  a  tcte  for  my 


own  wearmg 


Hastings.  Intolerable !    At  your  age  you  may  wear  what  you 

please,  and  it  must  become  you. 
Mrs.  Hardcastle.  Pray,  Mr.  Hastings,  what  do  you  take  to 

be  the  most  fashionable  age  about  town  ? 
Hastings.  Some  time  ago  forty  was  all  the  mode ;  but  I'm  told 

the  ladies  intend  to  bring  up  fifty  for  the  ensuing  winter. 
Mrs.  Hardcastle.  Seriously?    Then  I  shall  be  too  young  for 

the  fashion ! 
Hastings.  No  lady  begins  now  to  put  on  jewels  till  she's  past 

forty.     For  instance.  Miss  Neville  there,  in  a  polite  circle, 

would  be   considered  as  a  child,   as   a  mere  maker  of 

samplers. 
Mrs.  Hardcastle.  And  yet  my  niece  thinks  herself  as  much 

a  woman,  and  is  as  fond  of  jewels  as  the  oldest  of  us  all. 


4o8  GOLDSMITH 

Hastings.  Your  niece,  is  she  ?  And  that  young  gentleman,  a 
brother  of  yours,  I  should  presume  ? 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  My  son,  sir.  They  are  contracted  to  each 
other.  Observe  their  little  sports.  They  fall  in  and  out 
ten  times  a  day,  as  if  they  were  man  and  wife  already. 
[To  them.]  Well,  Tony,  child,  what  soft  things  are  you 
saying  to  your  Cousin  Constance,  this  evening? 

Tony.  I  have  been  saying  no  soft  things;  but  that  it's  very 
hard  to  be  followed  about  so.  Ecod !  I've  not  a  place  in 
the  house  now  that's  left  to  myself  but  the  stable. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  Never  mind  him.  Con,  my  dear.  He's  in 
another  story  behind  your  back. 

Miss  Neville.  There's  something  generous  in  my  cousin's 
manner.  He  falls  out  before  faces,  to  be  forgiven  in  pri- 
vate. 

Tony.  That's  a  d d  confounded — crack. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  Ah !  he's  a  sly  one.  Don't  you  think  they're 
like  each  other  about  the  mouth,  Mr.  Hastings?  The 
Blenkinsop  mouth  to  a  T.  They're  of  a  size  too.  Back  to 
back,  my  pretties,  that  Mr.  Hastings  may  see  you.  Come, 
Tony. 

Tony.  You  had  as  good  not  make  m?,  I  tell  you. 

[Measuring. 

Miss  Neville.  O  lud !  he  has  almost  cracked  my  head. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  O,  the  monster!  For  shame,  Tony.  You 
a  man,  and  behave  so ! 

Tony.  If  I'm  a  man,  let  me  have  my  fortin.  Ecod!  I'll  not 
be  made  a  fool  of  no  longer. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  Is  this,  ungrateful  boy,  all  that  I'm  to  get 
for  the  pains  I  have  taken  in  your  education  ?  I  that  have 
rocked  you  in  your  cradle,  and  fed  that  pretty  mouth  with 
a  spoon !  Did  not  I  work  that  waistcoat  to  make  you  gen- 
teel? Did  not  I  prescribe  for  you  every  day,  and  weep 
while  the  receipt  was  operating? 

Tony.  Ecod !  you  had  reason  to  weep,  for  you  have  been  dosing 
me  ever  since  I  was  born.  I  have  gone  through  every 
receipt  in  the  "  Complete  Housewife  "  ten  times  over ;  and 
you  have  thoughts  of  coursing  me  through  "  Quincy " 
next  spring.  But,  ecod!  I  tell  you,  I'll  not  be  made  a 
fool  of  no  longer. 


SHE   STOOPS  TO   CONQUER  409 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  Wasn't  it  all  for  your  good,  viper?  Wasn't 
it  all  for  your  good  ? 

Tony.  I  wish  you'd  let  me  and  my  good  alone,  then.  Snubbing 
this  way  when  I'm  in  spirits !  If  I'm  to  have  any  good,  let 
it  come  of  itself;  not  to  keep  dinging  it,  dinging  it  into 
one  so. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  That's  false;  I  never  see  you  when  you're 
in  spirits.  No,  Tony,  you  then  go  to  the  ale-house  or  ken- 
nel. I'm  never  to  be  delighted  with  your  agreeable,  wild 
notes,  unfeeling  monster ! 

Tony.  Ecod !  Mamma,  your  own  notes  are  the  wildest  of  the 
two. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  Was  ever  the  like  ?  But  I  see  he  wants  to 
break  my  heart,  I  see  he  does. 

Hastings.  Dear  Madam,  permit  me  to  lecture  the  young  gen- 
tleman a  little.    I'm  certain  I  can  persuade  him  to  his  duty. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  Well !  I  must  retire.  Come,  Constance,  my 
love.  You  see,  Mr.  Hastings,  the  wretchedness  of  my  situ- 
ation. Was  ever  poor  woman  so  plagued  with  a  dear, 
sweet,  pretty,  provoking,  undutiful  boy ! 

[Exeunt  Mrs.  Hardcastle  and  Miss  Neville. 

Tony  [singing].  There  zvas  a  young  man  riding  by,  and  fain 
ivould  have  his  will.  Rang  do  didlo  dee.  Don't  mind  her. 
Let  her  cry.  It's  the  comfort  of  her  heart.  I  have  seen  her 
and  sister  cry  over  a  book  for  an  hour  together,  and  they 
said,  they  liked  the  book  the  better  the  more  it  made  them 
cry. 

Hastings.  Then  you're  no  friend  to  the  ladies,  I  find,  my  pretty 
young  gentleman? 

Tony.  That's  as  I  find  'um. 

Hastings.  Not  to  her  of  your  mother's  choosing,  I  dare  answer ! 
And  yet  she  appears  to  me  a  pretty,  well-tempered  girl. 

Tony.  That's  because  you  don't  know  her  as  well  as  I.  Ecod  I 
I  know  every  inch  about  her ;  and  there's  not  a  more  bitter 
cantankerous  toad  in  all  Christendom  ! 

Hastings  [aside].  Pretty  encouragement,  this,  for  a  lover! 

Tony.  I  have  seen  her  since  the  height  of  that.  [Pointing  to 
a  lozv  chair.]  She  has  as  many  tricks  as  a  hare  in  a  thicket, 
or  a  colt  the  first  day's  breaking. 

Hastings.  To  me  she  appears  sensible  and  silent  1 


4IO  GOLDSMITH 

Tony.  Ay,  before  company.  But  when  she's  with  her  play- 
mates she's  as  loud  as  a  hog  in  a  gate. 

Hastings.  But  there  is  a  meek  modesty  about  her  that  charms 
me. 

Tony.  Yes,  but  curb  her  never  so  little,  she  kicks  up,  and  you're 
flung  in  a  ditch. 

Hastings.  Well,  but  you  must  allow  her  a  little  beauty.  Yes, 
you  must  allow  her  some  beauty. 

Tony.  Bandbox !  She's  all  a  made  up  thing,  mun.  Ah !  could 
you  but  see  Bet  Bouncer  of  these  parts,  you  might  then  talk 
of  beauty.  Ecod,  she  has  two  eyes  as  black  as  sloes,  and 
cheeks  as  broad  and  red  as  a  pulpit  cushion.  She'd  make 
two  of  she. 

[Pointing  in  the  direction^  of  the  door  through  which  Miss 
Neville  has  just  passed. 

Hastings.  Well,  what  say  you  to  a  friend  that  would  take  this 
bitter  bargain  off  your  hands  ? 

Tony.  Anon. 

Hastings.  Would  you  thank  him  that  would  take  Miss  Neville, 
and  leave  you  to  happiness  and  your  dear  Betsy? 

Tony.  Ay;  but  where  is  there  such  a  friend,  for  who  would 
take  her? 

Hastings.  I  am  he.  If  you  but  assist  me,  I'll  engage  to  whip 
her  off  to  France,  and  you  shall  never  hear  more  of  her. 

Tony.  Assist  you !  Ecod,  I  will,  to  the  last  drop  of  my  blood. 
I'll  clap  a  pair  of  horses  to  your  chaise  that  shall  trundle 
you  off  in  a  twinkling,  and  maybe  get  you  a  part  of  her 
fortin  besides,  in  jewels,  that  you  little  dream  of. 

Hastings.  My  dear  'Squire,  this  looks  like  a  lad  of  spirit. 

Tony.  Come  along  then,  and  you  shall  see  more  of  my  spirit 
before  you  have  done  with  me.  [Singing. 

We  are  the  boys 

That  fears  no  noise 

Where  the  thundering  cannons  roar. 

[Exeunt. 


SHE   STOOPS   TO    CONQUER  411 

ACT  THIRD 

Scene — A  Room  in  Hardcastle's  House 

Enter  Hardcastle. 

f Iardcastle.  What  could  my  old  friend  Sir  Charles  mean  by 
recommending  his  son  as  the  modestest  young  man  in 
town  ?  To  me  he  appears  the  most  impudent  piece  of  brass 
that  ever  spoke  with  a  tongue.  He  has  taken  possession 
of  the  easy  chair  by  the  fireside  already.  He  took  off  his 
boots  in  the  parlor,  and  desired  me  to  see  them  taken  care 
of.  I'm  desirous  to  know  how  his  impudence  affects  my 
daughter.     She  will  certainly  be  shocked  at  it. 

Enter  Miss  Hardcastle,  plainly  dressed. 

Hardcastle.  Well,  my  Kate,  I  see  you  have  changed  your  dress 
as  I  bid  you ;  and  yet,  I  believe,  there  was  no  great  occa- 
sion. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  I  find  such  a  pleasure,  sir,  in  obeying  your 
commands,  that  I  take  care  to  observe  them  without  ever 
debating  their  propriety. 

Hardcastle.  And  yet,  Kate,  I  sometimes  give  you  some  cause, 
particularly  when  I  recommended  my  modest  gentleman 
to  you  as  a  lover  to-day. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  You  taught  me  to  expect  something  ex- 
traordinary, and  I  find  the  original  exceeds  the  description ! 

Hardcastle.  I  was  never  so  surprised  in  my  life!  He  has 
quite  confounded  all  my  faculties ! 

Miss  Hardcastle.  I  never  saw  anything  like  it:  And  a  man 
of  the  world,  too ! 

Hardcastle.  Ay,  he  learned  it  all  abroad — what  a  fool  was  I, 
to  think  a  young  man  could  learn  modesty  by  travelling! 
He  might  as  soon  learn  wit  at  a  masquerade. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  It  seems  all  natural  to  him. 

Hardcastle.  A  good  deal  assisted  by  bad  company  and  a 
French  dancing-master. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  Sure,  you  mistake,  papa!   a  French  danc- 


4U  GOLDSMITH 

ing-master  could  never  have  taught  him  that  timid  look 
— that  awkward  address — that  bashful  manner 

Hardcastle.  Whose  look  ?   whose  manner  ?   child  ! 

Miss  Hardcastle.  Mr.  Mariow's:  his  mauvaise  honte,  his 
timidity  struck  me  at  the  first  sight. 

Hardcastle.  Then  your  first  sight  deceived  you ;  for  I  think 
him  one  of  the  most  brazen  first  sights  that  ever  astonished 
my  senses ! 

Miss  Hardcastle.  Sure,  sir,  you  rally !  I  never  saw  any  one 
so  modest. 

Hardcastle.  And  can  you  be  serious!  I  never  saw  such  a 
bouncing,  swaggering  puppy  since  I  was  born.  Bully 
Dawson  was  but  a  fool  to  him. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  Surprising!  He  met  me  with  a  respectful 
bow,  a  stammering  voice,  and  a  look  fixed  on  the  ground. 

Hardcastle,  He  met  me  Avith  a  loud  voice,  a  lordly  air,  and  a 
familiarity  that  matle  my  blood  freeze  again. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  He  treated  me  with  diffidence  and  respect ; 
censured  the  manners  of  the  age;  admired  the  prudence 
of  girls  that  never  laughed;  tired  me  with  apologies  for 
being  tiresome;  then  left  the  room  with  a  bow,  and, 
"  Madam,  I  would  not  for  the  world  detain  you." 

Hardcastle.  He  spoke  to  me  as  if  he  knew  me  all  his  life  be- 
fore. Asked  twenty  questions,  and  never  waited  for  an 
answer.  Interrupted  my  best  remarks  with  some  silly  pun, 
and  when  I  was  in  my  best  story  of  the  Duke  of  Marlbor- 
ough and  Prince  Eugene,  he  asked  if  I  had  not  a  good  hand 
at  making  punch.  Yes,  Kate,  he  asked  your  father  if  he 
was  a  maker  of  punch  ! 

Miss  Hardcastle.  One  of  us  must  certainly  be  mistaken. 

Hardcastle.  If  he  be  what  he  has  shown  himself,  I'm  deter- 
mined he  shall  never  have  my  consent. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  And  if  he  be  the  sullen  thing  I  take  him,  he 
shall  never  have  mine. 

Hardcastle.  In  one  thing  then  we  are  agreed — to  reject  him. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  Yes.  But  upon  conditions.  For  if  you 
should  find  him  less  impudent,  and  I  more  presuming;  if 
you  find  him  more  respectful,  and  I  more  importunate — I 
don't  know — the  fellow  is  well  enough  for  a  man — Cer- 
tainly we  don't  meet  many  such  at  a  horse  race  in  the 
country. 


SHE   STOOPS   TO   CONQUER  413 

Hardcastle.  If  we  should  find  him  so — But  that's  impossible. 

The  first  appearance  has  done  my  business.     I'm  seldom 

deceived  in  that. 
Miss  Hardcastle.  And  yet  there  may  be  many  good  qualities 

under  that  first  appearance. 
Hardcastle.  Ay,  when  a  girl  finds  a  fellow's  outside  to  her 

taste,  she  then  sets  about  guessing  the  rest  of  his  furniture. 

With  her,  a  smooth  face  stands  for  good  sense,  and  a  gen- 
teel figure  for  every  virtue. 
Mlss  Hardcastle.  I  hope,  sir,  a  conversation  begun  with  a 

compliment  to  my  good  sense  won't  end  with  a  sneer  at 

my  understanding? 
Hardcastle.  Pardon  me,  Kate.    But  if  young  Mr.  Brazen  can 

find  the  art  of  reconciling  contradictions,  he  may  please 

us  both,  perhaps. 
Miss  Hardcastle.  And  as  one  of  us  must  be  mistaken,  what  if 

we  go  to  make  further  discoveries? 
Hardcastle.    Agreed.    But  depend  on't,  I'm  in  the  right. 
Miss  Hardcastle.  And  depend  on't  I'm  not  much   in  the 

wrong.  [Exeunt. 

Enter  Tony  running  in  with  a  casket. 

Tony.  Ecod !  I  have  got  them.  Here  they  are.  My  Cousin 
Con's  necklaces,  bobs  and  all.  My  mother  shan't  cheat  the 
poor  souls  out  of  their  fortin  neither.  O !  my  genus,  is 
that  you? 

Enter  Hastings. 

Hastings.  My  dear  friend,  how  have  you  managed  with  your 
mother?  I  hope  you  have  amused  her  with  pretending  love 
for  your  cousin,  and  that  you  are  willing  to  be  reconciled  at 
last  ?  Our  horses  will  be  refreshed  in  a  short  time,  and  we 
shall  soon  be  ready  to  set  off. 

Tony.  And  here's  something  to  bear  your  charges  by  the  way. 
[Giving  the  casket.]  Your  sweetheart's  jewels.  Keep 
them,  and  hang  those,  I  say,  that  would  rob  you  of  one 
of  them ! 

Hastings.  But  how  have  you  procured  them  from  your 
mother  ? 

Tony.  Ask  me  no  questions,  and  I'll  tell  you  no  fibs.     I  pro- 


4,4  GOLDSMITH 

cured  them  by  the  rule  of  thumb.  If  I  had  not  a  key  to 
every  drawer  in  mother's  bureau,  how  could  I  go  to  the 
ale-house  so  often  as  I  do  ?  An  honest  man  may  rob  him- 
self of  his  own  at  any  time. 

Hastings.  Thousands  do  it  every  day.  But  to  be  plain  with 
you ;  Miss  Neville  is  endeavoring  to  procure  them  from 
her  aunt  this  very  instant.  If  she  succeeds,  it  will  be  the 
most  delicate  way  at  least  of  obtaining  them. 

Tony.  Well,  keep  them,  till  you  know  how  it  will  be.  But  I 
know  how  it  will  be  well  enough,  she'd  as  soon  part  with  the 
only  sound  tooth  in  her  head ! 

Hastings.  But  I  dread  the  effects  of  her  resentment,  when  she 
finds  she  has  lost  them. 

Tony.  Never  you  mind  her  resentment,  leave  me  to  manage 
that.  I  don't  value  her  resentment  the  bounce  of  a  cracker. 
Zounds !  here  they  are !    Morrice,  Prance ! 

[Exit  Hastings. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  Indeed,  Constance,  you  amaze  me.  Such  a 
girl  as  you  want  jewels  !  It  will  be  time  enough  for  jewels, 
my  dear,  twenty  years  hence,  when  your  beauty  begins 
to  want  repairs. 

Miss  Neville.  But  what  will  repair  beauty  at  forty,  will  cer- 
tainly improve  it  at  twenty,  madam. 

Mrs,  Hardcastle.  Yours,  my  dear,  can  admit  of  none.  That 
natural  blush  is  beyond  a  thousand  ornaments.  Besides, 
child,  jewels  are  quite  out  at  present.  Don't  you  see  half 
the  ladies  of  our  acquaintance,  my  lady  Killdaylight,  and 
Mrs.  Crump,  and  the  rest  of  them,  carry  their  jewels  to 
town,  and  bring  nothing  but  paste  and  marcasites  back  ? 

Miss  Neville.  But  who  knows,  madam,  but  somebody  that 
shall  be  nameless  would  like  me  best  with  all  my  little 
finery  about  me? 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  Consult  your  glass,  my  dear,  and  then  see, 
if  with  such  a  pair  of  eyes,  you  want  any  better  sparklers. 
What  do  you  thirik,  Tony,  my  dear ;  does  your  cousin  Con 
want  any  jewels,  in  your  eyes,  to  set  off  her  beauty? 

Tony.  That's  as  thereafter  may  be. 

Miss  Neville.  My  dear  aunt,  if  you  knew  how  it  would 
oblige  me 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  A  parcel  of  old-fashioned  rose  and  table- 


SHE   STOOPS   TO    CONQUER  415 

cut  things.     They  would  make  you  look  like  the  court  of 

king  Solomon  at  a  puppet-show.    Besides,  I  believe  I  can't 

readily  come  at  them.    They  may  be  missing,  for  aught  I 

know  to  the  contrary. 
Tony   [apart  to  Mrs.  Hardcastle].  Then  why  don't  you  tell 

her  so  at  once,  as  she's  so  longing  for  them?     Tell  her 

they're  lost.     It's  the  only  way  to  quiet  her.     Say  they're 

lost,  and  call  me  to  bear  witness. 
Mrs.  Hardcastle  [apart  to  Tony].  You  know,  my  dear,  I'm 

only  keeping  them  for  you.    So  if  I  say  they're  gone,  you'll 

bear  me  witness,  will  you  ?    He !  he !  he ! 
Tony.  Never  fear  me.    Ecod !    I'll  say  I  saw  them  taken  out 

with  my  own  eyes. 
Miss  Neville.  I  desire  them  but  for  a  day,  madam.    Just  to  be 

permitted  to  show  them  as  relics,  and  then  they  may  be 

locked  up  again. 
Mrs.  Hardcastle.  To  be  plain  with  you,  my  dear  Constance,  if 

I  could  find  them,  you  should  have  them.    They're  missing, 

I  assure  you.    Lost,  for  aught  I  know ;  but  we  must  have 

patience  wherever  they  are. 
Miss  Neville.  I'll  not  believe  it ;  this  is  but  a  shallow  pretence 

to  deny  me.    I  know  they're  too  valuable  to  be  so  slightly 

kept,  and  as  you  are  to  answer  for  the  loss. 
Mrs.  Hardcastle.  Don't  be  alarmed,  Constance.     If  they  be 

lost,  I  must  restore  an  equivalent.    But  my  son  knows  they 

are  missing,  and  not  to  be  found. 
Tony.  That  I  can  bear  witness  to.    They  are  missing,  and  not 

to  be  found,  I'll  take  my  oath  on't ! 
Mrs.  Hardcastle.  You  must  learn  resignation,  my  dear;   for 

though  we  lose  our  fortune,  yet  we  should  not  lose  our  pa- 
tience.   See  me,  how  calm  I  am ! 
Miss  Neville.  Ay,  people  are  generally  calm  at  the  misfortunes 

of  others. 
Mrs.  Hardcastle.  Now  I  wonder  a  girl  of  your  good  sense 

should  waste  a  thought  upon  such  trumpery.     We  shall 

soon  find  them;  and,  in  the  meantime,  you  shall  make  use 

of  my  garnets  till  your  jewels  be  found. 
Miss  Neville.    I  detest  garnets ! 
Mrs.  Hardcastle.  The  most  becoming  things  in  the  world  to 

set  off  a  clear  complexion.    You  have  often  seen  how  well 

they  look  upon  me.    You  shall  have  them.  [Exit 


4i6  GOLDSMITH 

Miss  Neville.  I  dislike  them  of  all  things.  You  shan't  stir. — 
Was  ever  anything  so  provoking,  to  mislay  my  own  jewels, 
and  force  me  to  wear  her  trumpery. 

Tony.  Don't  be  a  fool.  If  she  gives  you  the  garnets,  take  what 
you  can  get.  The  jewels  are  your  own  already.  I  have 
stolen  them  out  of  her  bureau,  and  she  does  not  know  it. 
Fly  to  your  spark,  he'll  tell  you  more  of  the  matter.  Leave 
me  to  manage  her. 

Miss  Neville,  My  dear  cousin! 

Tony.  Vanish.  She's  here,  and  has  missed  them  already. 
Zounds !  how  she  fidgets  and  spits  about  like  a  Catharine- 
wheel. 

Enter  Mrs.  Hardcastle. 

Mrs.   Hardcastle.  Confusion!    thieves!    robbers!     We  are 

cheated,  plundered,  broke  open,  undone ! 
Tony.  What's  the  matter,  what's  the  matter,  mamma  ?    I  hope 

nothing  has  happened  to  any  of  the  good  family  ! 
Mrs.  Hardcastle.  We  are  robbed.    My  bureau  has  been  broke 

open,  the  jewels  taken  out,  and  I'm  undone ! 
Tony.  Oh !  is  that  all  ?    Ha !   ha !  ha !    By  the  laws,  I  never 

saw  it  better  acted  in  my  life.     Ecod,  I  thought  you  was 

ruined  in  earnest,  ha,  ha,  ha ! 
Mrs.  Hardcastle.  Why,  boy,  I  am  ruined  in  earnest.     My 

bureau  has  been  broke  open,  and  all  taken  away. 
Tony.  Stick  to  that ;   ha,  ha,  ha !   stick  to  that.     I'll  bear  wit- 
ness, you  know,  call  me  to  bear  witness. 
Mrs.  Hardcastle.  I  tell  you,  Tony,  by  all  that's  precious,  the 

jewels  are  gone,  and  I  shall  be  ruined  forever. 
Tony.  Sure  I  know  they're  gone,  and  I  am  to  say  so. 
Mrs.  Hardcastle.  My  dearest  Tony,  but  hear  me.     They're 

gone,  I  say. 
Tony.  By  the  laws,  mamma,  you  make  me  for  to  laugh,  ha  I  ha ! 

I  know  who  took  them  well  enough,  ha !  ha  I  ha  ! 
Mrs.  Hardcastle.  Was  there  ever  such  a  blockhead,  that  can't 

tell  the  difference  between  jest  and  earnest?     I  tell  you 

I'm  not  in  jest,  booby ! 
Tony.  That's  right,  that's  right :  You  must  be  in  a  bitter  pas- 
sion, and  then  nobody  will  suspect  either  of  us.    I'll  beaF 

witness  that  they  are  gone. 


SHE   STOOPS   TO    CONQUER  417 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  Was  there  ever  such  a  cross-grained  brute, 
that  won't  hear  me !  Can  you  bear  witness  that  you're  no 
better  than  a  fool  ?  Was  ever  poor  woman  so  beset  with 
fools  on  one  hand,  and  thieves  on  the  other? 

Tony.  I  can  bear  witness  to  that. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  Bear  witness  again,  you  blockhead,  you, 
and  I'll  turn  you  out  of  the  room  directly.  My  poor  niece, 
what  will  become  of  her?  Do  you  laugh,  you  unfeeling 
brute,  as  if  you  enjoyed  my  distress? 

Tony.  I  can  bear  witness  to  that. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  Do  you  insult  me,  monster?  I'll  teach  you 
to  vex  your  mother,  I  will ! 

Tony.  I  can  bear  witness  to  that. 

[He  runs  off,  she  follows  him. 

Enter  Miss  Hardcastle  and  Maid. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  What  an  unaccountable  creature  is  that 
brother  of  mine,  to  send  them  to  the  house  as  an  inn,  ha ! 
ha !    I  don't  wonder  at  his  impudence. 

Maid.  But  what  is  more,  madam,  the  young  gentleman  as  you 
passed  by  in  your  present  dress,  asked  me  if  you  were  the 
barmaid?    He  mistook  you  for  the  barmaid,  madam! 

Miss  Hardcastle.  Did  he  ?  Then  as  I  live  I'm  resolved  to  keep 
up  the  delusion.  Tell  me.  Pimple,  how  do  you  like  my 
present  dress?  Don't  you  think  I  look  something  like 
Cherry  in  the  "  Beaux'  Stratagem?  " 

Maid.  It's  the  dress,  madam,  that  every  lady  wears  in  the  coun- 
try, but  when  she  visits  or  receives  company. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  And  are  you  sure  he  does  not  remember  my 
face  or  person? 

Maid.  Certain  of  it ! 

Miss  Hardcastle.  I  vow,  I  thought  so;  for  though  we  spoke 
for  some  time  together,  yet  his  fears  were  such,  that  he 
never  once  looked  up  during  the  interview.  Indeed,  if  he 
had,  my  bonnet  would  have  kept  him  from  seeing  me. 

Maid.  But  what  do  you  hope  from  keeping  him  in  his  mistake? 

Miss  Hardcastle.  In  the  first  place,  I  shall  be  seen,  and  that  is 
no  small  advantage  to  a  girl  who  brings  her  face  to  market. 
Then  I  shall  perhaps  make  an  acquaintance,  and  that's  no 


4x8  GOLDSMITH 

small  victory  gained  over  one  who  never  addresses  any 
but  the  wildest  of  her  sex.  But  my  chief  aim  is  to  take  my 
gentleman  off  his  guard,  and  like  an  invisible  champion 
of  romance  examine  the  giant's  force  before  I  offer  to 
combat. 

Maid.  But  you  are  sure  you  can  act  your  part,  and  disguise 
your  voice,  so  that  he  may  mistake  that,  as  he  has  already 
mistaken  your  person  ? 

Miss  Hardcastle.  Never  fear  me.  I  think  I  have  got  the  true 
bar  cant. — Did  your  honor  call  ?  Attend  the  Lion  there. — 
Pipes  and  tobacco  for  the  Angel. — The  Lamb  has  been  out- 
rageous this  half  hour ! 

Maid.  It  will  do,  madam.    But  he's  here.  [Exit  Maid. 

Enter  Marlow. 

Marlow.  What  a  bawling  in  every  part  of  the  house !  I  have 
scarce  a  moment's  repose.  If  I  go  to  the  best  room,  there 
I  find  my  host  and  his  story.  If  I  fly  to  the  gallery,  there 
we  have  my  hostess  with  her  curtsey  down  to  the  ground. 
I  have  at  last  got  a  moment  to  myself,  and  now  for  recol- 
lection. [Walks  and  muses. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  Did  you  call,  sir?  did  your  honor  call? 

Marlow  [musing].  As  for  Miss  Hardcastle,  she's  too  grave 
and  sentimental  for  me. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  Did  your  honor  call  ? 

[She  still  places  herself  before  him,  he  turning  away. 

Marlow.  No,  child!  [Musing].  Besides,  from  the  glimpse  I 
had  of  her,  I  think  she  squints. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  I'm  sure,  sir,  I  heard  the  bell  ring. 

Marlow.  No,  no !  [Musing] .  I  have  pleased  my  father,  how- 
ever, by  coming  down,  and  I'll  to-morrow  please  myself  by 
returning.  [Taking  out  his  tablets,  and  perusing. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  Perhaps  the  other  gentleman  called,  sir? 

Marlow.  I  tell  you,  no. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  I  should  be  glad  to  know,  sir.  We  have 
such  a  parcel  of  servants. 

Marlow.  No,  no,  I  tell  you.  [Looks  full  in  her  face.]  Yes, 
child,  I  think  I  did  call.  I  wanted — I  wanted — I  vow,  child, 
you  are  vastly  handsome ! 


SHE   STOOPS   TO    CONQUER  419 

Miss  Hardcastle,  O  la,  sir,  you'll  make  one  ashamed. 
Marlow.  Never  saw  a  more  sprightly  malicious  eye.    Yes,  yes, 

my  dear,  I  did  call.    Have  you  got  any  of  your — a — what 

d'ye  call  it  in  the  house? 
Miss  Hardcastle.  No,  sir,  we  have  been  out  of  that  these  ten 

days. 
Marlow.  One  may  call  in  this  house,  I  find  to  very  little  pur- 
pose.   Suppose  I  should  call  for  a  taste,  just  by  way  of  trial, 

of  the  nectar  of  your  lips ;  perhaps  I  might  be  disappointed 

in  that,  too ! 
Miss  Hardcastle.    Nectar !  nectar !  that's  a  liquor  there's  no 

call  for  in  these  parts.     French,  I  suppose.     We  keep  no 

French  wines  here,  sir. 
Marlow.    Of  true  English  growth,  I  assure  you. 
Miss  Hardcastle.  Then  it's  odd  I  should  not  know  it.    We 

brew  all  sorts  of  wines  in  this  house,  and  I  have  lived 

here  these  eighteen  years. 
Marlow.  Eighteen  years!    Why,  one  would  think,  child,  you 

kept  the  bar  before  you  were  born.    How  old  are  you  ? 
Miss  Hardcastle.  O  !  sir,  I  must  not  tell  my  age.    They  say 

women  and  music  should  never  be  dated. 
Marlow.  To  guess  at  this  distance,  you  can't  be  much  above 

forty.     [Approaching.]   Yet  nearer  I  don't  think  so  much. 

[Approaching.]    By  coming  close  to  some  women  they 

look  younger  still ;    but  when  we  come  very  close  indeed 

—  [Attempting  to  kiss  her.] 
Miss  Hardcastle.  Pray,  sir,  keep  your  distance.    One  would 

think  you  wanted  to  know  one's  age  as  they  do  horses',  by 

mark  of  mouth. 
Marlow.  I  protest,  child,  you  use  me  extremely  ill.     If  you 

keep  me  at  this  distance,  how  is  it  possible  you  and  I  can 

be  ever  acquainted  ? 
Miss  Hardcastle.  And  who  wants  to  be  acquainted  with  you  ? 

I  want  no  such  acquaintance,  not  I.    I'm  sure  you  did  not 

treat  Miss  Hardcastle  that  was  here  awhile  ago  in  this  ob- 

stropalous  manner.    I'll  warrant  me,  before  her  you  looked 

dashed,  and  kept  bowing  to  the  ground,  and  talked,  for  all 

the  world,  as  if  you  were  before  a  justice  of  peace. 
Marlow    [aside].  Egad!    she  has  hit  it,  sure  enough.     [To 

her.]  In  awe  of  her,  child?    Ha!  ha!  ha!    A  mere  awk- 


4SO 


GOLDSMITH 


ward,  squinting  thing,  no,  no !  I  find  you  don't  know  me; 
I  laughed,  and  ralHed  her  a  Httle ;  but  I  was  unwilling  to 
be  too  severe.    No,  I  could  not  be  too  severe,  curse  me ! 

Miss  Hardcastle.  O  !  then,  sir,  you  are  a  favorite,  I  find, 
among  the  ladies? 

Marlow.  Yes,  my  dear,  a  great  favorite.  And  yet,  hang  me, 
I  don't  see  what  they  find  in  me  to  follow.  At  the  Ladies' 
Club  in  town  I'm  called  their  agreeable  Rattle.  Rattle, 
child,  is  not  my  real  name,  but  one  I'm  known  by.  My 
name  is  Solomons.  Mr.  Solomons,  my  dear,  at  your  ser- 
vice. [Offering  to  salute  her. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  Hold,  sir ;  you  were  introducing  me  to  your 
club,  not  to  yourself.  And  you're  so  great  a  favorite  there, 
you  say? 

Marlow.  Yes,  my  dear.  There's  Mrs.  Mantrap,  Lady  Betty 
Blackleg,  the  Countess  of  Sligo,  Mrs.  Longhorns,  old  Miss 
Biddy  Buckskin  and  your  humble  servant,  keep  up  the 
spirit  of  the  place. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  Then  it's  a  very  merry  place,  I  suppose. 

Marlow.  Yes,  as  merry  as  cards,  suppers,  wine,  and  old  women 
can  make  us. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  And  their  agreeable  Rattle,  ha!   ha!   ha! 

Marlow  [aside] .  Egad !  I  don't  quite  like  this  chit.  She 
looks  knowing,  methinks.    You  laugh,  child ! 

Miss  Hardcastle.  I  can't  but  laugh  to  think  what  time  they  all 
have  for  minding  their  work  or  their  family. 

Marlow  [aside'].  All's  well,  she  don't  laugh  at  me.  [To  her.] 
Do  you  ever  work,  child? 

Miss  Hardcastle.  Ay,  sure.  There's  not  a  screen  or  a  quilt  in 
the  whole  house  but  what  can  bear  witness  to  that. 

Marlow.  Odso!  Then  you  must  show  me  your  embroidery. 
I  embroider  and  draw  patterns  myself  a  little.  If  you  want 
a  judge  of  your  work  you  must  apply  to  me. 

[Seising  her  hand. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  Ay,  but  the  colors  don't  look  well  by  candle 
light.    You  shall  see  all  in  the  morning.  [Struggling. 

Marlow.  And  why  not  now,  my  angel  ?  Such  beauty  fires  be- 
yond the  power  of  resistance. — Pshaw!  the  father  here! 
My  old  luck:  I  never  nicked  seven  that  I  did  not  throw 
ames-ace  three  times  following.  [Exit  Marlow, 


SHE  STOOPS  TO   CONQUER  421 

Enter  Hardcastle,  who  stands  in  surprise. 

Hardcastle.  So,  madam!  So  I  find  this  is  your  modest  lover. 
This  is  your  humble  admirer  that  kept  his  eyes  fixed  on  the 
ground,  and  only  adored  at  humble  distance.  Kate,  Kate, 
art  thou  not  ashamed  to  deceive  your  father  so? 

Miss  Hardcastle.  Never  trust  me,  dear  papa,  but  he's  still  the 
modest  man  I  lirst  took  him  for,  you'll  be  convinced  of  it 
as  well  as  I. 

Hardcastle.  By  the  hand  of  my  body,  I  believe  his  impudence 
is  infectious!  Didn't  I  see  him  seize  your  hand?  Didn'l  I 
see  him  haul  you  about  like  a  milkmaid?  And  now  you 
talk  of  his  respect  and  his  modesty,  forsooth ! 

Miss  Hardcastle.  But  if  I  shortly  convince  you  of  his  mod- 
esty, that  he  has  only  the  faults  that  will  pass  off  with 
time,  and  the  virtues  that  will  improve  with  a^e,  I  hope 
you'll  forgive  him. 

Hardcastle.  The  girl  would  actually  make  one  run  mad!  I 
tell  you  I'll  not  be  convinced.  I  am  convinced.  He  has 
scarcely  been  three  hours  in  the  house,  and  he  has  already 
encroached  on  all  my  prerogatives.  You  may  like  his 
impudence,  and  call  it  modesty.  But  my  son-in-law, 
madam,  must  have  very  different  qualifications. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  Sir,  I  ask  but  this  night  to  convince  you. 

Hardcastle.  You  shall  not  have  half  the  time,  for  I  have 
thoughts  of  turning  him  out  this  very  hour. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  Give  me  thi:  hour  then,  and  I  hope  to  sat- 
isfy you. 

Hardcastle.  Well,  an  hour  let  it  be  then.  But  I'll  have  no 
trifling  with  your  father.    All  fair  a^d  open,  do  you  mind 


me 


Miss  Hardcastle.  I  hope,  sir,  you  have  ever  found  that  I 
considered  your  commands  as  my  pride;  for  your  kind- 
ness is  such,  that  my  duty  as  yet  has  been  inclination. 

[Exeunt. 


4aa  GOLDSMITH 

ACT   FOURTH 
Scene — A  Room  in  Hardcastle's  House 

Enter  Hastings  and  Miss  Neville. 

Hastings.  You  surprise  me!  Sir  Charles  Marlow  expected 
here  this  night?    Where  have  you  had  your  information? 

Miss  Neville.  You  may  depend  upon  it.  I  just  saw  his  letter 
to  Mr.  Hardcastle,  in  which  he  tells  him  he  intends  setting 
out  a  few  hours  after  his  son. 

Hastings.  Then,  my  Constance,  all  must  be  completed  before 
he  arrives.  He  knows  me;  and  should  he  find  me  here, 
would  discover  my  name,  and  perhaps  my  designs,  tq'the 
rest  of  the  family. 

Miss  Neville.  The  jewels,  I  hope,  are  safe. 

Hastings.  Yes,  yes.  I  have  sent  them  to  Marlow,  who  keeps 
the  keys  of  our  baggage.  In  the  meantime,  I'll  go  to  pre- 
pare matters  for  our  elopement.  I  have  had  the  'Squire's 
promise  of  a  fresh  pair  of  horses ;  and,  if  I  should  not  see 
him  again,  will  write  him  further  directions.  {Exit. 

Miss  Neville.  Well !  success  attend  you.  In  the  meantime, 
I'll  go  amuse  my  aunt  with  the  old  pretence  of  a  violent 
passion  for  my  cousin.  [Exit. 

Enter  Marlow,  followed  by  a  servant. 

Marlow.  I  wonder  what  Hastings  could  mean  by  sending  me 
so  valuable  a  thing  as  a  casket  to  keep  for  him,  when  he 
knows  the  only  place  I  have  is  the  seat  of  a  post-coach  at  an 
Inn-door.  Have  you  deposited  the  casket  with  the  land- 
lady, as  I  ordered  you?  Have  you  put  it  into  her  own 
hands  ? 

Servant.  Yes,  your  honor. 

Marlow.  She  said  she'd  keep  it  safe,  did  she? 

Servant,  Yes,  she  said  she'd  keep  it  safe  enough;  she  asked 
me  how  I  came  by  it  ?  and  she  said  she  had  a  great  mind 
to  make  me  give  an  account  of  myself.       [Exit  servant. 

Marlow.  Ha!    ha!    ha!    They're  safe,  however.     What  an 


SHE   STOOPS   TO    CONQUER  423 

unaccountable  set  of  beings  have  we  got  amongst!    This 
Httle  barmaid,  though,  runs  in  my  head  most  strangely, 
and  drives  out  the  absurdities  of  all  the  rest  of  the  family. , 
She's  mine,  she  must  be  mine,  or  I'm  greatly  mistaken ! 

Enter  Hastings. 

Hastings.  Bless  me !  I  quite  forgot  to  tell  her  that  I  intended 
to  prepare  at  the  bottom  of  the  garden.  Marlow  here,  arid 
in  spirits  too ! 

Marlow.  Give  me  joy,  George!  Crown  me,  shadow  me  with 
laurels !  Well,  George,  after  all,  we  modest  fellows  don't 
want  for  success  among  the  women. 

Hastings.  Some  women,  you  mean.  But  what  success  has 
your  honor's  modesty  been  crowned  with  now,  that  it 
grows  so  insolent  upon  us  ? 

Marlow.  Didn't  you  see  the  tempting,  brisk,  lovely  little  thing 
that  runs  about  the  house  with  a  bunch  of  keys  to  its  girdle  ? 

Hastings.  Well!  and  what  then? 

Marlow.  She's  mine,  you  rogue,  you.  Such  fire,  such  motion, 
such  eyes,  such  lips — but  egad !  she  would  not  let  me  kiss 
them  though. 

Hastings.  But  are  you  sure,  so  very  sure  of  her? 

Marlow.  Why,  man,  she  talked  of  showing  me  her  work  above- 
stairs,  and  I  am  to  improve  the  pattern. 

Hastings.  But  how  can  you,  Charles,  go  about  to  rob  a  woman 
of  her  honor? 

Marlow.  Pshaw !  pshaw !  we  all  know  the  honor  of  the  bar- 
maid of  an  inn.  I  don't  intend  to  rob  her ;  take  my  word 
for  it,  there's  nothing  in  this  house  I  shan't  honestly  pay 
for! 

Hastings.  I  believe  the  girl  has  virtue. 

Marlow.  And  if  she  has,  I  should  be  the  last  man  in  the 
world  that  would  attempt  to  corrupt  it. 

Hastings.  You  have  taken  care,  I  hope,  of  the  casket  I  sent 
you  to  lock  up  ?    It's  in  safety  ? 

Marlow.  Yes,  yes.  It's  safe  enough.  I  have  taken  care  of 
it.  But  how  could  you  think  the  seat  of  a  post-coach  at 
an  Inn-door  a  place  of  safety  ?  Ah  !  numbskull !  I  have 
taken  better  precautions  for  you  than  you  did  for  your- 
self.   I  have Classics.    Vol.  36— S 


4  24  GOLDSMITH 

Hastings.  What? 

Marlow,  I  have  sent  it  to  the  landlady  to  keep  for  you. 

Hastings.  To  the  landlady ! 

Marlow.  The  landlady, 

Hastings.  You  did ! 

Marlow.  I  did.     She's  to  be  answerable  for  its  forthcoming, 

you  know. 
Hastings.  Yes,  she'll  bring  it  forth  with  a  witness. 
Marlow.  Wasn't  it  right?    I  believe  you'll  allow  that  I  acted 

prudently  upon  this  occasion? 
Hastings  [aside].  He  must  not  see  my  uneasiness. 
Marlow.  You  seem  a  little  disconcerted,  though,  methinks. 

Sure  nothing  has  happened  ? 
Hastings.  No,  nothing.    Never  was  in  better  spirits  in  all  my 

life.    And  so  you  left  it  with  the  landlady,  who,  no  doubt, 

very  readily  undertook  the  charge? 
Marlow.  Rather  too  readily.    For  she  not  only  kept  the  casket, 

but,  through  her  great  precaution,  was  going  to  keep  the 

messenger  too.    Ha !  ha !   ha ! 
Hastings.  He !  he !  he !    They're  safe,  however. 
Marlow.  As  a  guinea  in  a  miser's  purse. 
Hastings  [aside] .  So  now  all  hopes  of  fortune  are  at  an  end, 

and  we  must  set  off  without  it.     [To  hint.]   Well,  Charles, 

I'll  leave  you  to  your  meditations  on  the  pretty  barmaid, 

and,  he!   he!   he!   may  you  be  as  successful  for  yourself 

as  you  have  been  for  me.  [Exit. 

Marlow.  Thank  ye,  George !    I  ask  no  more.    Ha !  ha !  ha ! 

Enter  Hardcastle. 

Hardcastle.  I  no  longer  know  my  own  house.  It's  turned  all 
topsy-turvy.  His  servants  have  got  drunk  already.  I'll 
bear  it  no  longer,  and  yet,  from  my  respect  for  his  father, 
I'll  be  calm.  [To  him.]  Mr.  Marlow,  your  servant.  I'm 
your  very  humble  servant.  [Bowing  low. 

Marlow.  Sir,  your  humble  servant.  [Aside.]  What's  to  be 
the  wonder  now? 

Hardcastle.  I  believe,  sir,  you  must  be  sensible,  sir,  that  no 
man  alive  ought  to  be  more  welcome  than  your  father's  son, 
sir.    I  hope  you  think  so  F 


SHE   STOOPS   TO    CONQUER  425 

Marlow.  I  do,  from  my  soul,  sir.    I  don't  want  much  entreaty. 

I  generally  make  my  father's  son  welcome  wherever  he 

goes. 
Hardcastle.  I  believe  you  do,  from  my  soul,  sir.    But  though 

I  say  nothing  to  your  own  conduct,  that  of  your  servants  is 

insufferable.     Their  manner  of  drinking  is  setting  a  very 

bad  example  in  this  house,  I  assure  you. 
Marlow.  I  protest,  my  very  good  sir,  that's  no  fault  of  mine. 

If  they  don't  drink  as  they  ought  they  are  to  blame.     I 

ordered  them  not  to  spare  the  cellar,  I  did,  I  assure  you. 

[To  the  side  scene.]   Here,  let  one  of  my  servants  come  up. 

[To  him.']   My  positive  directions  were,  that  as  I  did  not 

drink  myself,  they  should  make  up  for  my  deficiencies 

below. 
Hardcastle.  Then  they  had  your  orders  for  what  they  do! 

I'm  satisfied ! 
Marlow.  They  had,  I  assure  you.     You  shall  hear  from  one 

of  themselves. 

Enter  servant,  drunk. 

Marlow.  You,  Jeremy !  Come  forward,  sirrah !  What  were 
my  orders  ?  Were  you  not  told  to  drink  freely,  and  call  for 
what  you  thought  fit,  for  the  good  of  the  house  ? 

Hardcastle  [aside].  I  begin  to  lose  my  patience. 

Jeremy.  Please  your  honor,  liberty  and  Fleet  Street  forever! 
Though  I'm  but  a  servant,  I'm  as  good  as  another  man. 
I'll  drink  for  no  man  before  supper,  sir,  dammy!  Good 
liquor  will  sit  upon  a  good  supper,  but  a  good  supper  will 
not  sit  upon — hiccup — upon  my  conscience,  sir. 

Marlow.  You  see,  my  old  friend,  the  fellow  is  as  drunk  as 
he  can  possibly  be  I  don't  know  what  you'd  have  more, 
unless  you'd  have  the  poor  devil  soused  in  a  beer-barrel. 

Hardcastle.  Zounds!  He'll  drive  me  distracted  if  I  contain 
myself  any  longer.  Mr.  Marlow.  Sir  I  I  have  submitted 
to  your  insolence  for  more  than  four  hours,  and  I  see  no 
likelihood  of  its  coming  to  an  end.  I'm  now  resolved  to 
be  master  here,  sir,  and  I  desire  that  you  and  your  drunken 
pack  may  leave  my  house  directly. 

Marlow.  Leave  your  house ! — Sure,  you  jest,  my  good  friend ! 
What,  when  I'm  doing  what  I  can  to  please  you  ! 


426  GOLDSMITH 

Hardcastle.  I  tell  you,  sir,  you  don't  please  me;  so  I  desire 
you'll  leave  my  house. 

Marlow.  Sure,  you  cannot  be  serious  I  At  this  time  of  night, 
and  such  a  night !    You  only  mean  to  banter  me ! 

Hardcastle.  I  tell  you,  sir,  I'm  serious;  and,  now  that  my 
passions  are  roused,  I  say  this  house  is  mine,  sir — this  house 
is  mine,  and  I  command  you  to  leave  it  directly. 

Marlow.  Ha !  ha !  ha !  A  puddle  in  a  storm.  I  shan't  stir  a 
step,  I  assure  you,  [In  a  serious  tone.]  This  your  house, 
fellow !  It's  my  house.  This  is  my  house.  Mine,  while 
I  choose  to  stay.  What  right  have  you  to  bid  me  leave  this 
house,  sir?  I  never  met  with  such  impudence,  curse  me, 
never  in  my  whole  life  before ! 

Hardcastle.  Nor  I,  confound  me  if  ever  I  did !  To  come  to 
my  house,  to  call  for  what  he  likes,  to  turn  me  out  of  my 
own  chair,  to  insult  the  family,  to  order  his  servants  to  get 
drunk,  and  then  to  tell  me.  This  house  is  mine,  sir.  By  all 
that's  impudent,  it  makes  me  laugh.  Ha !  ha !  ha !  Pray, 
sir,  [bantering],  as  you  take  the  house,  what  think  you  of 
taking  the  furniture?  There's  a  pair  of  silver  candle- 
sticks, and  there's  a  fire-screen,  and  here's  a  pair  of 
brazen-nosed  bellows,  perhaps  you  may  take  a  fancy  to 
them? 

Marlow.  Bring  me  your  bill,  sir,  bring  me  your  bill,  and  let's 
make  no  more  words  about  it. 

Hardcastle.  There  are  a  set  of  prints,  too.  What  think  you 
of  the  "  Rake's  Progress  "  for  your  own  apartment  ? 

Marlow.  Bring  me  your  bill,  I  say;  and  I'll  leave  you  and 
your  infernal  house  directly. 

Hardcastle.  Then  there's  a  mahogany  table,  that  you  may  see 
your  own  face  in. 

Marlow.  My  bill,  I  say. 

Hardcastle.  I  had  forgot  the  great  chair,  for  your  own  par- 
ticular slumbers,  after  a  hearty  meal. 

Marlow.  Zounds !  bring  me  my  bill,  I  say,  and  let's  hear  no 
more  on't. 

Hardcastle.  Young  man,  young  man,  from  your  father's  let- 
ter to  me,  I  was  taught  to  expect  a  well-bred  modest  man 
as  a  visitor  here,  but  now  I  find  him  no  better  than  a  cox- 
comb and  a  bully ;  but  he  will  be  down  here  presently,  and 
shall  hear  more  of  it.  [Exit. 


SHE   STOOPS   TO    CONQUER  427 

Marlow.  How's  this?  Sure,  I  have  not  mistaken  the  house? 
Everything  looks  hke  an  inn.  The  servants  cry  "  coming." 
The  attendance  is  awkward ;  the  barmaid,  too,  to  attend 
us.  But  she's  here,  and  will  further  inform  me.  Whither 
so  fast,  child  ?    A  word  with  you. 

Enter  Miss  Hardcastle. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  Let  it  be  short,  then.  I'm  in  a  hurr)'. — 
[Aside.]  I  believe  he  begins  to  find  out  his  mistake,  but 
it's  too  soon  quite  to  undeceive  him. 

Marlow.  Pray,  child,  answer  me  one  question.  What  are  you, 
and  what  may  your  business  in  this  house  be? 

Miss  Hardcastle.  A  relation  of  the  family,  sir. 

Marlow.  What?    A  poor  relation? 

Miss  Hardcastle.  Yes,  sir.  A  poor  relation  appointed  to  keep 
the  keys,  and  to  see  that  the  guests  want  nothing  in  my 
power  to  give  them. 

Marlow.  That  is,  you  act  as  the  barmaid  of  this  inn. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  Inn !  O  law ! — What  brought  that  in  your 
head  ?  One  of  the  best  families  in  the  county  keep  an  inn  1 
Ha,  ha,  ha,  old  Mr.  Hardcastle's  house  an  inn ! 

Marlow.  Mr.  Hardcastle's  house!  Is  this  house  Mr,  Hard- 
castle's house,  child? 

Miss  Hardcastle.   Ay,  sure.    Whose  else  should  it  be? 

Marlow.  So,  then  all's  out,  and  I  have  been  damnably  imposed 
on.  O,  confound  my  stupid  head,  I  shall  be  laughed  at 
over  the  whole  town.  I  shall  be  stuck  up  in  caricature  in 
all  the  print-shops.  The  Dullissimo  Macaroni!  To  mis- 
take this  house  of  all  others  for  an  inn,  and  my  father's 
old  friend  for  an  inn-keeper !  What  a  swaggering  puppy 
must  he  take  me  for!  What  a  silly  puppy  do  I  find  my- 
self I  There  again,  may  I  be  hanged,  my  dear,  but  I  mis- 
took you  for  the  barmaid ! 

Miss  Hardcastle.  Dear  me!  dear  me!  I'm  sure  there's  noth- 
ing in  my  behavior  to  put  me  upon  a  level  with  one  of  that 
stamp. 

Marlow.  Nothing,  my  dear,  nothing.  But  I  was  in  for  a  list 
of  blunders,  and  could  not  help  making  you  a  subscriber. 
My  stupidity  saw  everything  the  wrong  way.     I  mistook 


428  GOLDSMITH 

your  assiduity  for  assurance,  and  your  simplicity  for  allure- 
ment. But  it's  over — this  house  I  no  more  show  my 
face  in ! 

Miss  Hardcastle.  I  hope,  sir,  I  have  done  nothing  to  dis- 
oblige you.  I'm  sure  I  should  be  sorry  to  affront  any  gen- 
tleman who  has  been  so  polite,  and  said  so  many  civil  things 
to  me.  I'm  sure  I  should  be  sorry  [pretending  to  cry]  if 
he  left  the  family  upon  my  account.  I'm  sure  I  should 
be  sorry  people  said  anything  amiss,  since  I  have  no  fortune 
but  my  character. 

Marlow  [aside].  By  heaven,  she  weeps.  This  is  the  first  mark 
of  tenderness  I  ever  had  from  a  modest  woman,  and  it 
touches  me.  [To  her.]  Excuse  me,  my  lovely  girl,  you 
are  the  only  part  of  the  family  I  leave  with  reluctance. 
But  to  be  plain  with  you,  the  difference  of  our  birth,  for- 
tune, and  education,  make  an  honorable  connection  impos- 
sible ;  and  I  can  never  harbor  a  thought  of  seducing  sim- 
plicity that  trusted  in  my  honor,  or  bringing  ruin  upon  one 
whose  only  fault  was  being  too  lovely. 

Miss  Hardcastle  [aside].  Generous  man!  I  now  begin  to 
admire  him.  [To  him.]  But  I'm  sure  my  family  is  as  good 
as  Miss  Hardcastle's,  and  though  I'm  poor,  that's  no  great 
misfortune  to  a  contented  mind,  and,  until  this  moment, 
I  never  thought  that  it  was  bad  to  want  fortune. 

Marlow.  And  why  now,  my  pretty  simplicity  ? 

Miss  Hardcastle.  Because  it  puts  me  at  a  distance  from  one, 
that  if  I  had  a  thousand  pound  I  would  give  it  all  to. 

Marlow  [aside].  This  simplicity  bewitches  me,  so  that  if  I 
stay  I'm  undone.  I  must  make  one  bold  effort,  and  leave 
her.  [To  her.]  Your  partiality  in  my  favor,  my  dear, 
touches  me  most  sensibly,  and  were  I  to  live  for  myself 
alone,  I  could  easily  fix  my  choice.  But  I  owe  too  much 
to  the  opinion  of  the  world,  too  much  to  the  authority  of  a 
father,  so  that — I  can  scarcely  speak  it — it  affects  me! 
Farewell !  [Exit. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  I  never  knew  half  his  merit  till  now.  He 
shall  not  go,  if  I  have  power  or  art  to  detain  him.  I'll  still 
preserve  the  character  in  which  I  stooped  to  conquer,  but 
will  undeceive  my  papa,  who,  perhaps,  may  laugh  him  out 
of  his  resolution.  [Exit. 


SHE   STOOPS   TO    CONQUER  429 

Enter  Tony  and  Miss  Neville. 

Tony.  Ay,  you  may  steal  for  yourselves  the  next  time.  I  have 
done  my  duty.  She  has  got  the  jewels  again,  that's  a  sure 
thing ;  but  she  beheves  it  was  all  a  mistake  of  the  servants. 

Miss  Neville.  But,  my  dear  cousin,  sure,  you  won't  forsake 
us  in  this  distress.  If  she  in  the  least  suspects  that  I  am 
going  off,  I  shall  certainly  be  locked  up,  or  sent  to  my 
aunt  Pedigree's,  which  is  ten  times  worse. 

Tony.  To  be  sure,  aunts  of  all  kinds  are  d d  bad  things. 

But  what  can  I  do  ?  I  have  got  you  a  pair  of  horses  that 
will  fly  like  Whistlejacket,  and  I'm  sure  you  can't  say  but 
I  have  courted  you  nicely  before  her  face.  Here  she  comes, 
we  must  court  a  bit  or  two  more,  for  fear  she  should  sus- 
pect us.  [They  retire,  and  seem  to  caress. 

Enter  Mrs.  Hardcastle. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  Well,  I  was  greatly  fluttered,  to  be  sure. 
But  my  son  tells  me  it  was  all  a  mistake  of  the  servants.  I 
shan't  be  easy,  however,  till  they  are  fairly  married,  and 
then  let  her  keep  her  own  fortune.  But  what  do  I  see? 
Caressing  one  another,  as  I'm  alive!  I  never  saw  Tony 
so  sprightly  before.  Ah !  have  I  caught  you,  my  pretty 
doves?  What,  billing,  exchanging  stolen  glances,  and 
broken  murmurs !    Ah ! 

Tony.  As  for  murmurs,  mother,  we  grumble  a  little  now  and 
then,  to  be  sure.    But  there's  no  love  lost  between  us. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  A  mere  sprinkling,  Tony,  upon  the  flame, 
only  to  make  it  burn  brighter. 

Miss  Neville.  Cousin  Tony  promises  to  give  us  more  of  his 
company  at  home.  Indeed,  he  shan't  leave  us  any  more. 
It  won't  leave  us,  cousin  Tony,  will  it? 

Tony.  O  \  it's  a  pretty  creature.  No,  I'd  sooner  leave  my 
horse  in  a  pound,  than  leave  you  when  you  smile  upon  one 
so.    Your  laugh  makes  you  so  becoming. 

Miss  Neville.  Agreeable  cousin !  Who  can  help  admiring  that 
natural  humor,  that  pleasant,  broad,  red,  thoughtless  [pat- 
ting his  cheeky,  ah!    it's  a  bold  face. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  Pretty  innocence ! 

Tony.  I'm  sure  I  always  loved  cousin  Con's  hazel  eyes,  and 


430  GOLDSMITH 

her  pretty  long  fingers,  that  she  twists  this  way  and  that, 
over  the  harpsichord,  like  a  parcel  of  bobbins. 
Mrs,  Hardcastle.  Ah,  he  would  charm  the  bird  from  the  tree. 
I  was  never  so  happy  before.  My  boy  takes  after  his 
father,  poor  Mr.  Lumpkin,  exactly.  The  jewels,  my  dear 
Con,  shall  be  yours  incontinently.  You  shall  have  them. 
Isn't  he  a  sweet  boy,  my  dear?  You  shall  be  married  to- 
morrow, and  we'll  put  off  the  rest  of  his  education,  like 
Dr.  Drowsy's  sermons,  to  a  fitter  opportunity. 

Enter  Diggory. 

DiGGORY.  Where's  the  'Squire?  I  have  got  a  letter  for  your 
worship. 

Tony.  Give  it  to  my  mamma.    She  reads  all  my  letters  first. 

Diggory.  I  had  orders  to  deliver  it  into  your  own  hands. 

Tony.  Who  does  it  come  from  ? 

Diggory.  Your  worship  mun  ask  that  of  the  letter  itself. 

Tony.    I  could  wish  to  know,  though. 

[Taking  the  letter,  and  gazing  on  it. 

Miss  Neville  [aside'].  Undone,  undone!  A  letter  to  him 
from  Hastings.  I  know  the  hand.  If  my  aunt  sees  it  we 
are  ruined  forever.  I'll  keep  her  employed  a  little  if  I  can. 
[To  Mrs.  Hardcastle.]  But  I  have  not  told  you,  madam, 
of  my  cousin's  smart  answer  just  now  to  Mr.  Marlow.  We 
so  laughed — you  must  know,  madam — this  way  a  little, 
for  he  must  not  hear  us.  [They  confer. 

Tony  [still  gazing].  A  d d  cramp  piece  of  penmanship,  as 

ever  I  saw  in  my  life.     I  can  read  your  print-hand  verv 
well.     But  here  there  are  such  handles,  and  shanks,  ai; 
dashes,  that  one  can  scarce  tell  the  head  from  the  tail. 
Anthony  Lumpkin,  Esquire.    It's  very  odd,  I  can  read  ' 
outside  of  my  letters,  where  my  own  name  is,  well  enou 
But  when  I  come  to  open  it,  it's  all — buzz.     That's  har  ■ 
very  hard ;   for  the  inside  of  the  letter  is  always  the  creai; 
of  the  correspondence. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle,  Ha !  ha !  ha !  Very  well,  very  well.  And 
so  my  son  was  too  hard  for  the  philosopher ! 

Miss  Neville,  Yes,  madam ;  but  you  must  hear  the  rest, 
madam.  A  little  more  this  way,  or  he  may  hear  us.  You'll 
hear  how  he  puzzled  him  again. 


SHE  STOOPS  TO   CONQUER  43X 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  He  seems  strangely  puzzled  now  himself, 
methinks. 

Tony  [still  gasing],  A  d d  up  and  down  hand,  as  if  it 

was  disguised  in  liquor.  [Reading.]  Dear  Sir.  Ay, 
that's  that.  Then  there's  an  M,  and  a  T,  and  an  S,  but 
whether  the  next  be  an  izzard  or  an  R,  confound  me,  I  can- 
not tell ! 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  What's  that,  my  dear  ?  Can  I  give  you  any 
assistance? 

Miss  Neville.  Pray,  aunt,  let  me  read  it.  Nobody  reads  a 
cramp  hand  better  than  I.  [Tztnteliing  the  letter  from 
him.]   Do  you  know  who  it  is  from? 

Tony.  Can't  tell,  except  from  Dick  Ginger  the  feeder. 

Miss  Neville.  Ay,  so  it  is.  [Pretending  to  read.]  "Dear 
'Squire,  Hoping  that  you're  in  health,  as  I  am  at  this  pres- 
ent. The  gentlemen  of  the  Shake-bag  club  has  cut  the 
gentlemen  of  Goose-green  quite  out  of  feather.    The  odds 

— um — odd  battle — um — long  fighting "    here,  here, 

it's  all  about  cocks,  and  fighting;  it's  of  no  consequence, 
here,  put  it  up,  put  it  up. 

[Thrusting  the  crumpled  letter  upon  him. 

Tony.  But  I  tell  you,  miss,  it's  of  all  the  consequence  in  the 
world !  I  would  not  lose  the  rest  of  it  for  a  guinea !  Here, 
mother,  do  you  make  it  out.    Of  no  consequence ! 

[Gii'ing  Mrs.  Hardcastle  the  letter. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  How's  this?  [Reads.]  "Dear  'Squire, 
I'm  now  waiting  for  Miss  Neville,  with  a  post-chaise  and 
pair,  at  the  bottom  of  the  garden,  but  I  find  my  horses  yet 
unable  to  perform  the  journey.  I  expect  you'll  assist  us 
with  a  pair  of  fresh  horses,  as  you  promised.  Despatch 
is  necessary,  as  the  hag  "  (ay,  the  hag)  "  your  mother,  will 
otherwise  suspect  us.  Yours,  Hastings."  Grant  me  pa- 
tience.   I  shall  run  distracted !    My  rage  chokes  me. 

Miss  Neville.  I  hope,  madam,  you'll  suspend  your  resentment 
for  a  few  moments,  and  not  impute  to  me  any  impertinence, 
or  sinister  design  that  belongs  to  another. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle  [curtseying  very  low].  Fine  spoken, 
madam,  you  are  most  miraculously  polite  and  engaging, 
and  quite  the  very  pink  of  courtesy  and  circumspection, 
madam.     [Changing  her  tone.]  And  you,  you  great  ill- 


432  GOLDSMITH 

fashioned  oaf,  with  scarce  sense  enough  to  keep  your 
mouth  shut!  Were  you  too  joined  against  me?  But  I'll 
defeat  all  your  plots  in  a  moment.  As  for  you,  madam, 
since  you  have  got  a  pair  of  fresh  horses  ready,  it  would 
be  cruel  to  disappoint  them.  So,  if  you  please,  instead  of 
running  away  with  your  spark,  prepare,  this  very  moment, 
to  run  off  with  me.  Your  old  aunt  Pedigree  will  keep  you 
secure,  I'll  warrant  me.  You  too,  sir,  may  mount  your 
horse,  and  guard  us  upon  the  way.  Here,  Thomas,  Roger, 
Diggory — I'll  show  you  that  I  wish  you  better  than  you  do 
yourselves.  [Exit. 

Miss  Neville.  So  now  I'm  completely  ruined. 

Tony.  Ay,  that's  a  sure  thing. 

Miss  Neville.  What  better  could  be  expected  from  being  con- 
nected with  such  a  stupid  fool,  and  after  all  the  nods  and 
signs  I  made  him  ? 

Tony.  By  the  laws,  miss,  it  was  your  own  cleverness,  and  not 
my  stupidity,  that  did  your  business.  You  were  so  nice  and 
so  busy  with  your  Shake-bags  and  Goose-greens,  that  I 
thought  you  could  never  be  making  believe. 

Enter  Hastings. 

Hastings.  So,  sir,  I  find  by  my  servant,  that  you  have  shown 
my  letter,  and  betrayed  us.  Was  this  well  done,  young 
gentleman  ? 

Tony.  Here's  another.  Ask  miss  there  who  betrayed  you. 
Ecod,  it  was  her  doing,  not  mine. 

Enter  Marlow. 

Marlow.  So  I  have  been  finely  used  here  among  you.  Ren- 
dered contemptible,  driven  into  ill  manners,  despised,  in- 
sulted, laughed  at ! 

Tony.  Here's  another.  We  shall  have  old  Bedlam  broke  loose 
presently. 

Miss  Neville.  And  there,  sir,  is  the  gentleman  to  whom  we 
all  owe  every  obligation. 

Marlow.  What  can  I  say  to  him,  a  mere  boy,  an  idiot  whose 
ignorance  and  age  are  a  protection  ? 

Hastings.  A  poor  contemptible  booby,  that  would  but  disgrace 
correction. 


SHE   STOOPS   TO   CONQUER  433 

Miss  Neville.  Yet  with  cunning-  and  malice  enough  to  make 
himself  merry  with  all  our  embarrassments. 

Hastings.  An  insensible  cub. 

Marlow.  Replete  with  tricks  and  mischief. 

Tony.  Baw !  damme,  but  I'll  fight  you  both  one  after  the 
other — with  baskets. 

Marlow.  As  for  him,  he's  below  resentment.  But  your  con- 
duct, Mr.  Hastings,  requires  an  explanation.  You  knew 
of  my  mistakes,  yet  would  not  undeceive  me. 

Hastings.  Tortured  as  I  am  with  my  own  disappointments,  is 
this  a  time  for  explanations  ?  It  is  not  friendly,  Mr.  Mar- 
low. 

Marlow.  But,  sir — 

Miss  Neville.  Mr.  Marlow,  we  never  kept  on  your  mistake, 
till  it  was  too  late  to  undeceive  you.    Be  pacified. 

Enter  servant. 

Servant.  My  mistress  desires  you'll  get  ready  immediatel>> 
madam.  The  horses  are  putting  to.  Your  hat  and  things 
are  in  the  next  room.  We  are  to  go  thirty  miles  before 
morning.  [Exit  servant. 

Miss  Neville.  Well,  well ;  I'll  come  presently. 

Marlow  [to  Hastings'].  Was  it  well  done,  sir,  to  assist  in 
rendering  me  ridiculous?  To  hang  me  out  for  the  scorn 
of  all  my  acquaintance?  Depend  upon  it,  sir,  I  shall  ex- 
pect an  explanation. 

Hastings.  Was  it  well  done,  sir,  if  you're  upon  that  subject, 
to  deliver  what  I  entrusted  to  yourself,  to  the  care  of  an- 
other, sir  ? 

Miss  Neville.  Mr.  Hastings,  Mr.  Marlow.  Why  will  you  in- 
crease my  distress  by  this  groundless  dispute  ?    I  implore, 

I  entreat  you 

Enter  servant. 

Servant.  Your  cloak,  madam.    My  mistress  is  impatient. 
Miss  Neville.  I  come.     Pray  be  pacified.     If  I  leave  you 
thus,  I  shall  die  with  apprehension ! 

Enter  servant. 

Servant.  Your  fan,  muff,  and  gloves,  madam.  The  horses  are 
waiting. 


424  GOLDSMITH 

Miss  Neville.  O,  Mr.  Marlow !  if  you  knew  what  a  scene  of 
constraint  and  ill-nature  lies  before  me,  I'm  sure  it  would 
convert  your  resentment  into  pity. 

Marlow.  I'm  so  distracted  with  a  variety  of  passions,  that  I 
don't  know  what  I  do.  Forgive  me,  madam.  George,  for- 
give me.  You  know  my  hasty  temper,  and  should  not  ex- 
asperate it. 

Hastings,  The  torture  of  my  situation  is  my  only  excuse. 

Miss  Neville.  Well,  my  dear  Hastings,  if  you  have  that  es- 
teem for  me  that  I  think,  that  I  am  sure  you  have,  your 
constancy  for  three  years  will  but  increase  the  happiness 
of  our  future  connection.    If 

Mrs.  Hardcastle  [within].  Miss  Neville — Constance,  why, 
Constance,  I  say ! 

Miss  Neville.  I'm  coming.  Well,  constancy.  Remember, 
constancy  is  the  word.  [Exit. 

Hastings.  My  heart!  How  can  I  support  this?  To  be  so 
near  happiness,  and  such  happiness ! 

Marlow  [to  Tony].  You  see  now,  young  gentleman,  the  ef- 
fects of  your  folly.  What  might  be  amusement  to  you,  is 
here  disappointment,  and  even  distress, 

Tony  [from  a  reverie].  Ecod,  I  have  hit  it.  It's  here.  Your 
hands.  Yours  and  yours,  my  poor  Sulky,  My  boots  there, 
ho !  Meet  me  two  hours  hence  at  the  bottom  of  the  gar- 
den; and  if  you  don't  find  Tony  Lumpkin  a  more  good- 
natur'd  fellow  than  you  thought  for,  I'll  give  you  leave  to 
take  my  best  horse,  and  Bet  Bouncer  into  the  bargain ! 
Come  along.    My  boots,  ho !  [Exeunt. 


ACT   FIFTH 
Scene  I. — A  Room  in  Hardcastle*s  House 

Enter  Hastings  and  servant. 

Hastings.  You  saw  the  old  lady  and  Miss  Neville  drive  off, 

you  say? 
Servant.  Yes,  your  honor.  They  went  off  in  a  post-coach,  and 

the  young  'Squire  went  on  horseback.     They're  miles  off 

by  this  time. 


SHE   STOOPS   TO   CONQUER  435 

Hastings.  Then  all  my  hopes  are  over. 

Servant.  Yes,  sir.    Old  Sir  Charles  is  arrived.     He  and  the 

old  gentleman  of  the  house  have  been  laughing  at  Mr. 

Marlow's  mistake  this  half-hour.     They  are  coming  this 

way. 
Hastings.  Then  I  must  not  be  seen.    So  now  to  my  fruitless 

appointment  at  the  bottom  of  the  garden.    This  is  about  the 

time.  [Exit. 

Enter  Sir  Charles  and  Hardcastle, 

Hardcastle.  Ha !  ha !  ha !  The  peremptory  tone  in  which  he 
sent  forth  his  sublime  commands. 

Sir  Charles.  And  the  reserve  with  which  I  suppose  he  treated 
all  your  advances. 

Hardcastle.  And  yet  he  might  have  seen  something  in  me 
above  a  common  inn-keeper,  too. 

Sir  Charles.  Yes,  Dick,  but  he  mistook  you  for  an  uncommon 
inn-keeper,  ha !  ha !  ha ! 

Hardcastle.  Well,  I'm  in  too  good  spirits  to  think  of  anything 
but  joy.  Yes,  my  dear  friend,  this  union  of  our  families 
will  make  our  personal  friendships  hereditary :  and  though 
•my  daughter's  fortune  is  small 

Sir  Charles.  Why,  Dick,  will  you  talk  of  fortune  to  me?  My 
son  is  possessed  of  more  than  a  competence  already,  and 
can  want  nothing  but  a  good  and  virtuous  girl  to  share 
his  happiness  and  increase  it.  If  they  like  each  other,  as 
you  say  they  do 

Hardcastle.  //,  man !  I  tell  you  they  do  like  each  other.  My 
daughter  as  good  as  told  me  so. 

Sir  Charles.  But  girls  are  apt  to  flatter  themselves,  you  know. 

Hardcastle.  I  saw  him  grasp  her  hand  in  the  warmest  man- 
ner myself ;  and  here  he  comes  to  put  you  out  of  your  ifs, 
I  warrant  him. 

Enter  Marlow. 

Marlow.  I  come,  sir,  once  more,  to  ask  pardon  for  my  strange 
conduct.  I  can  scarce  reflect  on  my  insolence  without  con- 
fusion. 

Hardcastle.  Tut,  boy,  a  trifle.    You  take  it  too  gravely.    An 


436  GOLDSMITH 

hour  or  two's  laughing  with  my  daughter  will  set  all  to 
rights  again.    She'll  never  like  you  the  worse  for  it. 

Marlow.  Sir,  I  shall  be  always  proud  of  her  approbation. 

Hardcastle.  Approbation  is  but  a  cold  word,  Mr.  Marlow; 
if  I  am  not  deceived,  you  have  something  more  than  ap- 
probation thereabouts.    You  take  me? 

Marlow.  Really,  sir,  I  have  not  that  happiness. 

Hardcastle.  Come,  boy,  I'm  an  old  fellow,  and  know  what's 
what,  as  well  as  you  that  are  younger.  I  know  what  has 
passed  between  you ;  but  mum. 

Marlow.  Sure,  sir,  nothing  has  passed  between  us  but  the 
most  profound  respect  on  my  side,  and  the  most  distant  re- 
serve on  hers.  You  don't  think,  sir,  that  my  impudence 
has  been  passed  upon  all  the  rest  of  the  family ! 

Hardcastle.  Impudence !  No,  I  don't  say  that — Not  quite  im- 
pudence— Though  girls  like  to  be  played  with,  and  rumpled 
a  little  too,  sometimes.  But  she  has  told  no  tales,  I  as- 
sure you. 

Marlow.  I  never  gave  her  the  slightest  cause. 

Hardcastle.  Well,  well.  I  like  modesty  in  its  place  well 
enough.  But  this  is  overacting,  young  gentleman.  You 
may  be  open.  Your  father  and  I  will  like  you  the  better 
for  it. 

Marlow.  May  I  die^  if  I  ever 

Hardcastle.  I  tell  you,  she  don't  dislike  you ;  and  as  I'm  sure 
you  like  her 

Marlow.  Dear  sir — I  protest,  sir 


Hardcastle.  I  see  no  reason  why  you  should  not  be  joined  as 

fast  as  the  parson  can  tie  you. 

Marlow.  But  hear  me,  sir 

Hardcastle.  Your  father  approves  the  match,  I  admire  it, 

every  moment's  delay  will  be  doing  mischief,  so 

Marlow.  But  why  won't  you  hear  me?    By  all  that's  just  and 

true,  I  never  gave  Miss  Hardcastle  the  slightest  mark  of 

my  attachment,  or  even  the  most  distant  hint  to  suspect  me 

of  affection.     We  had  but  one  interview,  and  that  was 

formal,  modest,  and  uninteresting. 
Hardcastle  [aside].  This  fellow's  formal  modest  impudence 

is  beyond  bearing. 
Sir  Charles.  And  you  never  grasped  her  hand,  or  made  any 

protestations ! 


SHE   STOOPS   TO    CONQUER  437 

Marlow.  As  heaven  is  my  witness,  I  came  down  in  obedience 
to  your  commands.  I  saw  the  lady  without  emotion,  and 
parted  without  reluctance,  I  hope  you'll  exact  no  further 
proofs  of  my  duty,  nor  prevent  me  from  leaving  a  house 
in  which  I  suffer  so  many  mortifications.  [Exit. 

Sir  Charles.  I'm  astonished  at  the  air  of  sincerity  with  which 
he  parted. 

Hardcastle.  And  I'm  astonished  at  the  deliberate  intrepidity 
of  his  assurance. 

Sir  Charles.  I  dare  pledge  my  life  and  honor  upon  his  truth. 

Hardcastle.  Here  comes  my  daughter,  and  I  would  stake  my 
happiness  upon  her  veracity. 

Enter  Miss  Hardcastle. 

Hardcastle.  Kate,  come  hither,  child.  Answer  us  sincerely, 
and  without  reserve ;  has  Mr.  Marlow  made  you  any  pro- 
fessions of  love  and  affection  ? 

Miss  Hardcastle.  The  question  is  very  abrupt,  sir !  But  since 
you  require  unreserved  sincerity,  I  think  he  has. 

Hardcastle  [to  Sir  Charles].  You  see. 

Sir  Charles.  And  pray,  madam,  have  you  and  my  son  had 
more  than  one  interview  ? 

Miss  Hardcastle.  Yes,  sir,  several. 

Hardcastle  [to  Sir  Charles].  You  see. 

Sir  Charles.  But  did  he  profess  any  attachment? 

Miss  Hardcastle.  A  lasting  one. 

Sir  Charles.  Did  he  talk  of  love? 

Miss  Hardcastle.  Much,  sir. 

Sir  Charles.  Amazing!    And  all  this  formally? 

Miss  Hardcastle.  Formally. 

Hardcastle.  Now,  my  friend,  I  hope  you  are  satisfied. 

Sir  Charles.  And  how  did  he  behave,  madam? 

Miss  Hardc.\stle.  As  most  professed  admirers  do.  Said  some 
civil  things  of  my  face,  talked  much  of  his  want  of  merit, 
and  the  greatness  of  mine;  mentioned  his  heart,  gave  a 
short  tragedy  speech,  and  ended  with  pretended  rapture. 

Sir  Charles.  Now  I'm  perfectly  convinced,  indeed.  I  know 
his  conversation  among  women  to  be  modest  and  submis- 
sive.   This  forward,  canting,  ranting  manner  by  no  means 


438  GOLDSMITH 

describes  him,  and  I  am  confident  he  never  sat  for  the 

picture. 
Miss  Hardcastle.  Then  what,  sir,  if  I  should  convince  you  to 

your  face  of  my  sincerity?    If  you  and  my  papa,  in  about 

half  an  hour,  will  place  yourselves  behind  that  screen,  you 

shall  hear  him  declare  his  passion  to  me  in  person. 
Sir  Charles.  Agreed.    And  if  I  find  him  what  you  describe, 

all  my  happiness  in  him  must  have  an  end.  [Exit, 

Miss  Hardcastle.  And  if  you  don't  find  him  what  I  describe — 

I  fear  my  happiness  must  never  have  a  beginning. 

[Exeunt. 

Scene  II. — A  Garden  back  of  Hardcastle's  House 

Enter  Hastings. 

Hastings.  What  an  idiot  am  I,  to  wait  here  for  a  fellow,  who 
probably  takes  a  delight  in  mortifying  me !  He  never  in- 
tended to  be  punctual,  and  I'll  wait  no  longer.  What  do 
I  see  ?    It  is  he,  and  perhaps  with  news  of  my  Constance. 

Enter  Tony,  booted  and  spattered. 

Hastings.  My  honest  'Squire !  I  now  find  you  a  man  of  your 
word.    This  looks  like  friendship. 

Tony.  Ay,  I'm  your  friend,  and  the  best  friend  you  have  in 
the  world,  if  you  knew  but  all.  This  riding  by  night, 
by-the-bye,  is  cursedly  tiresome.  It  has  shook  me  worse 
than  the  basket  of  a  stage-coach. 

Hastings.  But  how?  Where  did  you  leave  your  fellow- 
travellers  ?    Are  they  in  safety  ?    Are  they  housed  ? 

Tony.  Five  and  twenty  miles  in  two  hours  and  a  half  is  no 
such  bad  driving.  The  poor  beasts  have  smoked  for  it: 
Rabbit  me,  but  I'd  rather  ride  forty  miles  after  a  fox,  than 
ten  with  such  varmint. 

Hastings.  Well,  but  where  have  you  left  the  ladies  ?  I  die  with 
impatience. 

Tony.  Left  them  ?  Why,  where  should  I  leave  them,  but  wnerc 
I  found  them  ? 

Hastings.  This  is  a  riddle. 

Tony.  Riddle  me  this,  then.  What's  that  goes  round  the  house, 
and  round  the  house,  and  never  touches  the  house  ? 


SHE   STOOPS   TO   CONQUER  439 

Hastings.  I'm  still  astray. 

Tony.  Why,  that's  it,  mon.  I  have  led  them  astray.  By  jingo, 
there's  not  a  pond  or  slough  within  five  miles  of  the  place 
but  they  can  tell  the  taste  of. 

Hastings.  Ha,  ha,  ha,  I  understand ;  you  took  them  in  a  round, 
while  they  supposed  themselves  going  forward.  And  so 
you  have  at  last  brought  them  home  again. 

Tony.  You  shall  hear.  I  first  took  them  down  Feather-bed 
lane,  where  we  stuck  fast  in  the  mud.  I  then  rattled  them 
crack  over  the  stones  of  Up-and-down  Hill — I  then  intro- 
duced them  to  the  gibbet  on  Heavy-tree  Heath,  and  from 
that,  with  a  circumbendibus,  I  fairly  lodged  them  in  the 
horse-pond  at  the  bottom  of  the  garden. 

Hastings.  But  no  accident,  I  hope  ? 

Tony.  No,  no.  Only  mother  is  confoundedly  frightened.  She 
thinks  herself  forty  miles  off.  She's  sick  of  the  journey, 
and  the  cattle  can  scarce  crawl.  So,  if  your  own  horses 
be  ready,  you  may  whip  off  with  cousin,  and  I'll  be  bound 
that  no  soul  here  can  budge  a  foot  to  follow  you, 

Hastings.  My  dear  friend,  how  can  I  be  grateful  ? 

Tony.  Ay,  now  it's  dear  friend,  noble  'Squire.  Just  now,  it 
was  all  idiot,  cub,  and  run  me  through  the  vitals.  D — n 
your  way  of  fighting,  I  say.  After  we  take  a  knock  in  this 
part  of  the  country,  we  kiss  and  be  friends.  But  if  you 
had  run  me  through,  then  I  should  be  dead,  and  you  might 
go  kiss  the  hangman. 

Hastings.  The  rebuke  is  just.  But  I  must  hasten  to  relieve 
Miss  Neville ;  if  you  keep  the  old  lady  employed,  I  promise 
to  take  care  of  the  young  one.  [Exit  Hastings. 

Tony.  Never  fear  me.  Here  she  comes.  Vanish.  She's  got 
from  the  pond,  and  draggled  up  to  the  waist  like  a  mer- 
maid. 

Enter  Mrs.  Hardcastle. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  Oh,  Tony,  I'm  killed — shook — battered  to 
death  1  I  shall  never  survive  it !  That  last  jolt  that  laid  us 
against  the  quickset  hedge  has  done  my  business. 

Tony.  Alack,  mamma,  it  was  all  your  own  fault.  You  would 
be  for  running  away  by  night,  without  knowing  one  inch 
of  the  way. 


440 


GOLDSMITH 


Mrs.  Hardcastle.  I  wish  we  were  at  home  again!  I  never 
met  so  many  accidents  in  so  short  a  journey.  Drenched  in 
the  mud,  over-turned  in  a  ditch,  stuck  fast  in  a  slough, 
jolted  to  a  jelly,  and  at  last  to  lose  our  way !  Whereabouts 
do  you  think  we  are,  Tony  ? 

Tony.  By  my  guess  we  should  be  upon  Crackskull  Common, 
about  forty  miles  from  home. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  O  lud !  O  lud !  the  most  notorious  spot  in 
all  the  country.  We  only  want  a  robbery  to  make  a  com- 
plete night  on't. 

Tony.  Don't  be  afraid,  mamma,  don't  be  afraid.  Two  of  the 
five  that  kept  here  are  hanged,  and  the  other  three  may 
not  find  us.  Don't  be  afraid.  Is  that  a  man  that's  gallop- 
ing behind  us  ?    No ;  it's  only  a  tree.    Don't  be  afraid. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  The  fright  will  certainly  kill  me. 

Tony.  Do  you  see  anything  like  a  black  hat  moving  behind  the 
thicket? 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  O  death ! 

Tony.  No,  it's  only  a  cow.  Don't  be  afraid,  mamma,  don't  be 
afraid. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  As  I'm  alive,  Tony,  I  see  a  man  coming 
towards  us.  Ah!  I'm  sure  on't.  If  he  perceives  us,  we 
are  undone. 

Tony  [aside].  Father-in-law,  by  all  that's  unlucky,  come  to 
take  one  of  his  night  walks.  [To  her.']  Ah,  it's  a  high- 
wayman, with  pistols  as  long  as  my  arm.  A  d d  ill- 
looking  fellow. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  Good  heaven  defend  us!    He  approaches. 

Tony.  Do  you  hide  yourself  in  that  thicket,  and  leave  me  to 
manage  him.  If  there  be  any  danger  I'll  cough  and  cry 
hem.    When  I  cough  be  sure  to  keep  close. 

[Mrs.  Hardcastle  hides  behind  a  tree  in  the  hack  scene. 

Enter  Hardcastle. 

Hardcastle.  I'm  mistaken,  or  I  heard  voices  of  people  in  want 
of  help.  Oh,  Tony,  is  that  you  ?  I  did  not  expect  you  so 
soon  back.    Are  your  mother  and  her  charge  in  safety  ? 

Tony.  Very  safe,  sir,  at  my  aunt  Pedigree's.    Hem. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle  [from  behind].  Ah!   I  find  there's  danger. 


SHE   STOOPS   TO    CONQUER  441 

Hardcastle.  Forty  miles  in  three  hours ;  sure,  that's  too 
much,  my  youngster. 

Tony.  Stout  horses  and  willing  minds  make  short  journeys,  as 
they  say.    Hem. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle  [from  behind].  Sure  he'll  do  the  dear  boy 
no  harm. 

Hardcastle.  But  I  heard  a  voice  here;  I  should  be  glad  to 
know  from  whence  it  came. 

Tony.  It  was  I,  sir,  talking  to  myself,  sir.  I  was  saying  that 
forty  miles  in  four  hours  was  very  good  going.  Hem. 
Hem.  As  to  be  sure  it  was.  Hem.  I  have  got  a  sort  of 
cold  by  being  out  in  the  air.  We'll  go  in  if  you  please. 
Hem. 

Hardcastle.  But  if  you  talked  to  yourself,  you  did  not  answer 
yourself.  I  am  certain  I  heard  two  voices,  and  am  resolved 
[raisi)ig  his  voice]  to  find  the  other  out. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle  [from  behind].  Oh!  he's  coming  to  find 
me  out.    Oh ! 

Tony.  What  need  you  go,  sir,  if  I  tell  you?  Hem.  I'll  lay 
down  my  life  for  the  truth — hem.     I'll  tell  you  all,  sir. 

[Detaining  him. 

Hardcastle.  I  tell  you  I  will  not  be  detained.  I  insist  on  see- 
ing.   It's  in  vain  to  expect  I'll  believe  you. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle  [run)iiiig  forivard  from  behind].  O  lud, 
he'll  murder  my  poor  boy,  my  darling.  Here,  good  gentle- 
man, whet  your  rage  upon  me.  Take  my  money,  my  life, 
but  spare  that  young  gentleman,  spare  my  child,  if  you 
have  any  mercy. 

Hardcastle.  My  wife!  as  I'm  a  Christian.  From  whence  can 
she  come,  or  what  does  she  mean  ? 

Mrs.  Hardcastle  [kneeling'].  Take  compassion  on  us,  good 
Mr.  Highwayman.  Take  our  money,  our  watches,  all  we 
have,  but  spare  our  lives.  We  will  never  bring  you  to  jus- 
tice, indeed  we  won't,  good  Mr.  Highwayman. 

Hardcastle.  I  believe  the  woman's  out  of  her  senses.  What, 
Dorothy,  don't  you  know  mef 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  Mr.  Hardcastle,  as  I'm  alive!  My  fears 
blinded  me.  But  who,  my  dear,  could  have  expected  to 
meet  you  here,  in  this  frightful  place,  so  far  from  home? 
What  has  brought  you  to  follow  us? 


44* 


GOLDSMITH 


Hardcastle.  Sure,  Dorothy,  you  have  not  lost  your  wits !  So 
far  from  home,  when  you  are  within  forty  yards  of  your 
own  door!  [To  him.]  This  is  one  of  your  old  tricks,  you 
graceless  rogue,  you!  [To  her.]  Don't  you  know  the 
gate,  and  the  mulberry-tree ;  and  don't  you  remember  the 
horse-pond,  my  dear  ? 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  Yes,  I  shall  remember  the  horse-pond  as 
long  as  I  live;  I  have  caught  my  death  in  it.  [To  Tony.] 
And  is  it  to  you,  you  graceless  varlet,  I  owe  all  this?  I'll 
teach  you  to  abuse  your  mother,  I  will. 

Tony.  Ecod,  mother,  all  the  parish  says  you  have  spoiled  me, 
and  so  you  may  take  the  fruits  on't. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  I'll  spoil  you,  I  will. 

[Follows  him  off  the  stage.    Exit. 

Hardcastle.  There's  morality,  however,  in  his  reply.     [Exit. 

Enter  Hastings  and  Miss  Neville. 

Hastings.  My  dear  Constance,  why  will  you  deliberate  thus? 
If  we  delay  a  moment,  all  is  lost  forever.  Pluck  up  a 
little  resolution,  and  we  shall  soon  be  out  of  the  reach  of 
her  malignity. 

Miss  Neville.  I  find  it  impossible.  My  spirits  are  so  sunk  with 
the  agitations  I  have  suffered,  that  I  am  unable  to  face  any 
new  danger.  Two  or  three  years'  patience  will  at  last 
crown  us  with  happiness. 

Hastings.  Such  a  tedious  delay  is  worse  than  inconstancy. 
Let  us  fly,  my  charmer.  Let  us  date  our  happiness  from 
this  very  moment.  Perish  fortune !  Love  and  content  will 
increase  what  we  possess  beyond  a  monarch's  revenue. 
Let  me  prevail. 

Miss  Neville.  No,  Mr.  Hastings,  no.  Prudence  once  more 
comes  to  my  relief,  and  I  will  obey  its  dictates.  In  the 
moment  of  passion,  fortune  may  be  despised,  but  it  ever 
produces  a  lasting  repentance.  I'm  resolved  to  apply  to 
Mr.  Hardcastle's  compassion  and  justice  for  redress. 

Hastings.  But  though  he  had  the  will,  he  has  not  the  power 
to  relieve  you. 

Miss  Neville.  But  he  has  influence,  and  upon  that  I  am  re- 
solved to  rely. 


SHE   STOOPS   TO   CONQUER  443 

Hastings.  I  have  no  hopes.    But  since  you  persist,  I  must  re- 
luctantly obey  you.  [Exeunt. 


Scene  III. — A  Room  in  Hardcastle's  House 
Enter  Sir  Charles  and  Miss  Hardcastle. 

Sir  Charles.  What  a  situation  am  I  in!  If  what  you  say  ap- 
pears, I  shall  then  find  a  guilty  son.  If  what  he  says  be 
true,  I  shall  then  lose  one  that,  of  all  others,  I  most  wished 
for  a  daughter. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  I  am  proud  of  your  approbation;  and,  to 
show  I  merit  it,  if  you  place  yourselves  as  I  directed,  you 
shall  hear  his  explicit  declaration.    But  he  comes. 

Sir  Charles.  I'll  to  your  father,  and  keep  him  to  the  appoint- 
ment. [Exit  Sir  Charles. 

Enter  Marlozv. 

Marlow.  Though  prepared  for  setting  out,  I  come  once  more 
to  take  leave,  nor  did  I,  till  this  moment,  know  the  pain  I 
feel  in  the  separation. 

Miss  Hardcastle  [in  her  own  natural  manner'].  I  believe 
these  sufferings  cannot  be  very  great,  sir,  which  you  can 
so  easily  remove.  A  day  or  two  longer,  perhaps,  might 
lessen  your  uneasiness,  by  showing  the  little  value  of  what 
you  think  proper  to  regret, 

Marlow  [aside].  This  girl  every  moment  improves  upon  mc. 
[To  her.]  It  must  not  be,  madam.  I  have  already  trifled 
too  long  with  my  heart.  My  very  pride  begins  to  submit  to 
my  passion.  The  disparity  of  education  and  fortune,  the 
anger  of  a  parent,  and  the  contempt  of  my  equals,  begin  to 
lose  their  weight ;  and  nothing  can  restore  me  to  myself  but 
this  painful  effort  of  resolution. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  Then  go,  sir.  I'll  urge  nothing  more  to  de- 
tain you.  Though  my  family  be  as  good  as  hers  you  came 
down  to  visit,  and  my  education,  I  hope,  not  inferior,  what 
are  these  advantages  without  affluence  ?  I  must  remain  con- 
tented with  the  slight  approbation  of  imputed  merit ;  I  must 
have  only  the  mockery  of  your  addresses,  while  all  your 
ierious  aims  are  fixed  on  fortune. 


444  GOLDSMITH 

Enter  Hardcastle  and  Sir  Charles  from  behind. 

Sir  Charles.  Here,  behind  this  screen. 

Hardcastle.  Ay,  ay,  make  no  noise.  I'll  engage  my  Kato 
covers  him  with  confusion  at  last. 

Marlow.  By  heavens,  madam,  fortune  was  ever  my  smallest 
consideration.  Your  beauty  at  first  caught  my  eye;  for 
who  could  see  that  without  emotion?  But  every  moment 
that  I  converse  with  you,  steals  in  some  new  grace, 
heightens  the  picture,  and  gives  it  stronger  expression. 
What  at  first  seemed  rustic  plainness,  now  appears  refined 
simplicity.  What  seemed  forward  assurance,  now  strikes 
me  as  the  result  of  courageous  innocence,  and  conscious 
virtue. 

Sir  Charles.  What  can  it  mean  ?    He  amazes  me ! 

Hardcastle.  I  told  you  how  it  would  be.    Hush ! 

Marlow.  I  am  now  determined  to  stay,  madam,  and  I  have  too 
good  an  opinion  of  my  father's  discernment,  when  he  sees 
you,  to  doubt  his  approbation. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  No,  Mr.  Marlow,  I  will  not,  cannot  detain 
you.  Do  you  think  I  could  suffer  a  connection,  in  which 
there  is  the  smallest  room  for  repentance  ?  Do  you  think  I 
would  take  the  mean  advantage  of  a  transient  passion,  to 
load  you  with  confusion  ?  Do  you  think  I  could  ever  relish 
that  happiness,  which  was  acquired  by  lessening  yours  ? 

Marlow.  By  all  that's  good,  I  can  have  no  happiness  but  what's 
in  your  power  to  grant  me.  Nor  shall  I  ever  feel  repentance, 
but  in  not  having  seen  your  merits  before.  I  will  stay,  even 
contrary  to  your  wishes ;  and  though  you  should  persist  to 
shun  me,  I  will  make  my  respectful  assiduities  atone  for  the 
levity  of  my  past  conduct. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  Sir,  I  must  entreat  you'll  desist.  As  our  ac- 
quaintance began,  so  let  it  end,  in  indifference.  I  might 
have  given  an  hour  or  two  to  levity ;  but,  seriously,  Mr.  Mar- 
low, do  you  think  I  could  ever  submit  to  a  connection,  where 
I  must  appear  mercenary,  and  you  imprudent?  Do  you 
think  I  could  ever  catch  at  the  confident  addresses  of  a  se- 
cure admirer  ? 

Marlow  [kneeling].  Does  this  look  like  security?  Does  this 
look  like    confidence?      No,  madam,  every  moment    that 


SHE   STOOPS  TO   CONQUER  445 

shows  me  your  merit,  only  serves  to  increase  my  diffidence 

and  confusion.    Here  let  me  continue 

Sir  Charles.  I  can  hold  it  no  longer.    Charles,  Charles,  how 
hast  thou  deceived  me !    Is  this  your  indifference,  your  un- 
interesting conversation  ? 
Hardcastle.  Your    cold  contempt !    your  formal    interview ! 

What  have  you  to  say  now  ? 
Marlow.  That  I'm  all  amazement !    What  can  it  mean  ? 
Hardcastle.  It  means  that  you  can  say  and  unsay  things  at 
pleasure.     That  you  can  address  a  lady  in  private,  and 
deny  it  in  public ;  that  you  have  one  story  for  us,  and  an- 
other for  my  daughter ! 
Marlow.  Daughter ! — this  lady  your  daughter ! 
Hardcastle.  Yes,  sir,  my  only  daughter.     My  Kate,  whose 

else  should  she  be? 
Marlow.  Oh,  the  devil ! 

Miss  Hardcastle.  Yes,  sir,  that  very  identical  tall  squinting 
lady  you  were  pleased  to  take  me  for.  [Curtseying.]  She 
that  you  addressed  as  the  mild,  modest,  sentimental  man 
of  gravity,  and  the  bold,  forward,  agreeable  Rattle  of  the 
Ladies'  Club :  ha,  ha,  ha ! 
Marlow.  Zounds,    there's  no    bearing    this;  it's  worse    than 

death ! 
Miss  Hardcastle.  In  which  of  your  characters,  sir,  will  you 
give  us  leave  to  address  you?    As  the  faltering  gentleman, 
with  looks  on  the  ground,  that  speaks  just  to  be  heard,  and 
hates  hypocrisy :  or  the  loud  confident  creature,  that  keeps 
it  up  with  Mrs.  Mantrap,  and  old  Miss  Biddy  Buckskin,  till 
three  in  the  morning ;  ha,  ha,  ha  ! 
Marlow.  O,  curse  on  my  noisy  head  !    I  never  attempted  to  be 
impudent  yet,  that  I  was  not  taken  down.    I  must  be  gone. 
Hardcastle.  By  the  hand  of  my  body,  but  you  shall  not.     I 
see  it  was  all  a  mistake,  and  I  am  rejoiced  to  find  it.    You 
shall  not,  sir,  I  tell  you.    I  know  she'll  forgive  you.    Won't 
you  forgive  him,  Kate  ?    We'll  all  forgive  you.    Take  cour- 
age man. 

[They  retire,  she  tormenting  him,  to  the  back  scene. 

Enter  Mrs.  Hardcastle  and  Tony. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  So,  so,  they're  gone  off.     Let  them  eo,  I 
care  not. 


446 


GOLDSMITH 


Hardcastf^e.  Who  gone? 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  My  dutiful  niece  and  her  gentleman,  Mr. 

Hastings,  from  town — he  who  came  down  with  our  modest 

visitor,  here. 
Sir  Charles.  Who,  my  honest  George  Hastings?    As  worthy 

a  fellow  as  lives,  and  the  girl  could  not  have  made  a  more 

prudent  choice. 
Hardcastle.  Then,  by  the  hand  of  my  body,  I'm  proud  of  the 

connection. 
Mrs.  Hardcastle.  Well,  if  he  has  taken  away  the  lady,  he  has 

not  taken  her  fortune ;  that  remains  in  this  family  to  con- 
sole us  for  her  loss. 
Hardcastle.  Sure,  Dorothy,  you  would  not  be  so  mercenary  ? 
Mrs.  Hardcastle.  Ay,  that's  my  affair,  not  yours.    But  you 

know,  if  your  son,  when  of  age,  refuses  to  marry  his  cousin, 

her  whole  fortune  is  then  at  her  own  disposal. 
Hardcastle.  Ay,  but  he's  not  of  age,  and  she  has  not  thought 

proper  to  wait  for  his  refusal. 

Enter  Hastings  and  Miss  Neville. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle  [aside] .  What !  returned  so  soon  ?  I  begin 
not  to  like  it. 

Hastings  [to  Hardcastle].  For  my  late  attempt  to  fly  off  with 
your  niece,  let  my  present  confusion  be  my  punishment. 
We  are  now  come  back,  to  appeal  from  your  justice  to  your 
humanity.  By  her  father's  consent,  I  first  paid  her  my  ad- 
dresses, and  our  passions  were  first  founded  in  duty. 

Miss  Neville.  Since  his  death,  I  have  been  obliged  to  stoop 
to  dissimulation  to  avoid  oppression.  In  an  hour  of  levity, 
I  was  ready  even  to  give  up  my  fortune  to  secure  my  choice. 
But  I'm  now  recovered  from  the  delusion,  and  hope  from 
your  tenderness  what  is  denied  me  from  a  nearer  connec- 
tion. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  Pshaw,  pshaw!  this  is  all  but  the  whining 
end  of  a  modern  novel. 

Hardcastle.  Be  it  what  it  will,  I'm  glad  they're  come  back  to 
reclaim  their  due.  Come  hither,  Tony,  boy.  Do  you  re- 
fuse this  lady's  hand  whom  I  now  offer  you? 

Tony.  What  signifies  my  refusing?  You  know  I  can't  refuse 
her  till  I'm  of  age,  father. 


SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER  447 

Hardcastle.  While  I  thought  concealing  your  age,  boy,  was 
likely  to  conduce  to  your  improvement,  I  concurred  with 
your  mother's  desire  to  keep  it  secret.  But  since  I  find  she 
turns  it  to  a  wrong  use,  I  must  now  declare,  you  have  been 
of  age  these  three  months. 

Tony.  Of  age !    Am  I  of  age,  father  ? 

Hardcastle.  Above  three  months. 

Tony.  Then  you'll  see  the  first  use  I'll  make  of  my  liberty. 
[Taking  Miss  Neznlle's  hand.]  Witness  all  men  by  these 
presents,  that  I,  Anthony  Lumpkin,  Esquire,  of  blank 
place,  refuse  you,  Constantia  Neville,  spinster,  of  no  place 
at  all,  for  my  true  and  lawful  wife.  So  Constance  Neville 
may  marry  whom  she  pleases,  and  Tony  Lumpkin  is  his 
own  man  again ! 

Sir  Charles.  O  brave  'Squire ! 

Hastings.  My  worthy  friend ! 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  My  undutiful  oflFspring! 

Marlow.  Joy,  my  dear  George,  I  give  you  joy,  sincerely.  And 
could  I  prevail  upon  my  little  tyrant  here  to  be  less  arbi- 
trary, I  should  be  the  happiest  man  alive,  if  you  would  re- 
turn me  the  favor. 

Hastings  [to  Miss  Hardcastle].  Come,  madam,  you  are  now 
driven  to  the  very  last  scene  of  all  your  contrivances.  I 
know  you  like  him,  I'm  sure  he  loves  you,  and  you  must  and 
shall  have  him. 

Hardcastle  [joining  their  hands'].  And  I  say  so,  too.  And, 
Mr.  Marlow,  if  she  makes  as  good  a  wife  as  she  has  a 
daughter,  I  don't  believe  youHl  ever  repent  your  bargain. 
So  now  to  supper,  to-morrow  we  shall  gather  all  the  poor 
of  the  parish  about  us,  and  the  Mistakes  of  the  Night  shall 
be  crowned  with  a  merry  morning.  So,  boy,  take  her ;  and 
as  you  have  been  mistaken  in  the  mistress,  my  wish  is,  that 
you  may  never  be  mistaken  in  the  wife. 


Classics.     Vol.  36— T 


448  GOLDSMITH 

EPILOGUE 

By  Dr.  Goldsmith 

Well,  having  stooped  to  conquer  with  success. 

And  gained  a  husband  without  aid  from  dress. 

Still  as  a  Barmaid,  I  could  wish  it  too, 

As  I  have  conquered  him,  to  conquer  you : 

And  let  me  say,  for  all  your  resolution, 

That  pretty  Barmaids  have  done  execution. 

Our  life  is  all  a  play,  composed  to  please, 

"  We  have  our  exits  and  our  entrances." 

The  first  act  shows  the  simple  country  maid, 

Harmless  and  young,  of  everything  afraid ; 

Blushes  when  hired,  and  with  unmeaning  action, 

/  hopes  as  hozv  to  give  you  satisfaction. 

Her  second  act  displays  a  livelier  scene — 

Th'  unblushing  Barmaid  of  a  countty  inn. 

Who  whisks  about  the  house,  at  market  caters, 

Talks  loud,  coquets  the  guests,  and  scolds  the  waiter*. 

Next  the  scene  shifts  to  town,  and  there  she  soars. 

The  chop-house  toast  of  ogling  connoisseurs. 

On  'Squires  and  Cits  she  tRgTe  displays  her  arts. 

And  on  the  gridiron  broils  her  lovers'  hearts — 

And  as  she  smiles,  her  triumphs  to  complete, 

Even  Common  Councilmen  forget  to  eat. 

The  fourth  act  shows  her  wedded  to  the  'Squire, 

And  madam  now  begins  to  hold  it  higher ; 

Pretends  to  taste,  at  Operas  cries  caro, 

And  quits  her  Nancy  Dawson  for  Che  Faro. 

Dotes  upon  dancing,  and  in  all  her  pride 

Swims  round  the  room,  the  Heinel  of  Cheapside: 

Ogles  and  leers  with  artificial  skill. 

Till,  having  lost  in  age  the  power  to  kill, 

She  sits  all  night  at  cards,  and  ogles  at  spadille. 

Such,  through  our  lives,  the  eventful  history — 

The  fifth  and  last  act  still  remains  for  me. 

The  Barmaid  now  for  your  protection  prays 

Turns  female  Barrister,  and  pleads  for  Bayes. 


SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER  449 


EPILOGUE 
By  J.  Cradock,  Esq. 

Well — now  all's  ended — and  my  comrades  gone. 
Pray  what  becomes  of  mother's  nonly  son? 
A  hopeful  blade! — in  town  I'll  fix  my  station, 
And  try  to  make  a  bluster  in  the  nation. 
As  for  my  cousin  Neville,  I  renounce  her, 
Off — in  a  crack — I'll  carry  big  Bet  Bouncer. 

Why  should  not  I  in  the  great  world  appear? 
I  soon  shall  have  a  thousand  pounds  a  year ; 
No  matter  what  a  man  may  here  inherit, 
In  London — 'gad,  they've  some  regard  for  spirit. 
I  see  the  horses  prancing  up  the  streets. 
And  big  Bet  Bouncer  bobs  to  all  she  meets ; 
Then  hoikes  to  jiggs  and  pastimes  ev'ry  night— 
Not  to  the  plays — they  say  it  a'n't  polite, 
iTo  Sadler's- Wells  perhaps,  or  Operas  go. 
And  once  by  chance,  to  the  roratorio. 
Thus  here  and  there,  forever  up  and  down, 
We'll  set  the  fashions  too,  to  half  the  town  ; 
And  then  at  auctions — money  ne'er  regard, 
Buy  pictures  like  the  great,  ten  pounds  a  yard: 
Zounds,  we  shall  make  these  London  gentry  say. 
We  know  what's  d d  genteel,  as  well  as  they.* 

*  To  be  spoken  iu  the  character  of  Tony  Lumpkin. 


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